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The following 7 chapters are already available to Patrons.
Chapter 3 (The Ghost of Kyoshi), Chapter 4 (A Bastard's Bending), Chapter 5 (Fire and Farewells), Chapter 6 (Breath of Fire), Chapter 7 (The Road to White Harbor), Chapter 8 (The Call of the Water), and Chapter 9 (Kuruk Hates Being Second) are already available for Patrons.
293 AC
Jon Snow thrashed in his small bed, the furs tangled around his legs like grasping hands. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold that turned his breath to fog even inside the stone walls of Winterfell. His face contorted in concentration as he mumbled in his sleep.
"Stone... too big... can't..." he muttered, his small hands twitching atop the furs.
In his dream, Jon wasn't Jon at all. He looked through the eyes of someone else—a woman with delicate hands adorned with blue arrow tattoos. Before him loomed a creature of impossible size, a giant made entirely of stone and earth that tore great chunks from the mountainside and hurled them with devastating force. Jon—no, not Jon, someone else—moved with speed, evading the massive projectiles that shattered the ground where she had stood moments before.
"The Avatar State is not to be used lightly," came a voice from within and without simultaneously.
With movements that felt as natural as breathing, Jon's dream-self summoned gusts of wind that lifted her skyward, then brought forth water from a nearby stream, shaping it into a massive whip that sliced through the stone giant's arm. Fire erupted from her palms in controlled bursts, superheating the creature's rocky surface until it cracked and splintered. Finally, with a decisive gesture, she split the earth beneath the giant, creating a chasm that swallowed it whole.
"Yangchen..." Jon mumbled, the foreign name slipping from his lips like a secret.
His purple eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented in the dim light of dawn that filtered through his window. For several heartbeats, Jon remained frozen, his gaze darting to every corner of his small chamber as if expecting to find someone—or something—watching him. The shadows held nothing but the familiar outline of his meager possessions: a small wooden sword leaning against the wall, a chest containing his clothes, and a basin of water now filled with ice.
Jon exhaled slowly, his rigid posture relaxing. "No one there," he whispered to himself, relief evident in his childish voice.
This wasn't the first such dream. For as long as he could remember—which admittedly wasn't very long for a boy of ten—Jon had experienced these vivid visions. Sometimes, he dreamed of strange creatures: massive bison that soared through the air, badgers the size of bears that tunneled through earth as if it were water, dragons unlike any described in Maester Luwin's books. Other times, he talked with people who called him names he knew he had never heard before, yet those names all sounded familiar.
"Yangchen," he repeated softly, testing the name on his tongue. It joined the litany of others that had come to him in dreams: Kuruk, Szato, Gun, Onaara, Kyoshi—names he'd never heard in the waking world yet somehow knew belonged to him.
Jon remembered the time, nearly a year past, when he'd worked up the courage to tell his father about these dreams. Lord Eddard Stark had listened with his usual solemn attention. When Jon had finished his halting explanation, describing how he'd bent water into fantastic shapes and summoned fire from empty air, his father had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Dreams are just dreams, Jon," Lord Stark had said. "They may seem real while we sleep, but they are just dreams."
Later, when the dreams persisted, Jon had been taken to Maester Luwin. The learned man had been more curious, asking detailed questions about what Jon had seen and felt, but his conclusion had been much the same.
"The mind wanders far in sleep, Jon," the maester had explained, fingering the many links of his chain thoughtfully. "Your dreams are unusual, certainly, but not cause for concern. Children often dream of having powers beyond their reach—it's quite natural."
Jon slipped from beneath his furs, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. He padded to his window, pushing open the shutters to gaze out at the snow-covered courtyard below. Dawn had barely broken, and Winterfell was still largely asleep, though smoke already rose from the kitchens where the bakers would be preparing the day's bread.
Fresh snow had fallen overnight, carpeting the practice yard in pristine white. Jon stared at it, remembering his dream—not this night's dream of Yangchen and the stone giant, but an earlier one where he had moved snow with nothing but gestures of his hands, gathering it into a swirling vortex around him.
A foolish impulse seized him. Jon extended his hand toward the snow outside his window, concentrating with all his might. He imagined the snow rising, swirling, obeying his command as it had in his dream.
Nothing happened.
The snow remained undisturbed, save for where a raven hopped across its surface, leaving tiny tracks in its wake.
"You are an idiot," Jon mumbled to himself, dropping his hand and feeling heat rise in his cheeks despite being alone.
He turned from the window, moving to the basin of water to wash his face. As he reached for the cloth beside it, his hand hovered over the ice-filmed surface. His mind went to the dream he had tonight. He knew not who Yangchen was, but he remembered the way she had moved her hands, controlling the elements as if she had invisible hands.
Without fully understanding why, Jon held his palm just above the water's frozen surface and closed his eyes, focusing on the memory of warmth, of fire dancing across fingertips.
"Jon! Are you awake?" Robb's voice shattered his concentration as his half-brother burst through the door without knocking. "Ser Rodrik says we can have an extra hour of sword practice if we come down early!"
Jon jerked his hand away from the basin, an inexplicable feeling of guilt washing over him. "I—yes, I'll be right there."
Robb, already dressed and practically bouncing with energy, grinned. "What were you doing? You looked like Maester Luwin when he's trying to decipher those old scrolls from Valyria."
"Nothing," Jon replied quickly. Too quickly. "Just... thinking."
"Well, stop thinking and start moving! First one to the armory gets to use the good practice sword!" Robb darted away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Jon reached for his clothes, pushing thoughts of dreams and strange names from his mind. He was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell—not Yangchen or Kuruk or whoever these people were that haunted his sleep. Dreams were just dreams, as his father said. They held no meaning, no power.
Yet as he dressed, Jon couldn't help glancing back at the basin of water. For just a moment, before Robb had burst in, he could have sworn he felt the ice begin to respond to his touch, the surface softening ever so slightly beneath his hovering palm.
"Just your imagination," he told himself firmly, pulling on his boots. "Dreams are just dreams."
.
.
The Great Hall of Winterfell bustled with morning activity as servants hurried about, bringing platters of food to the high table where the Stark family broke their fast. Steam rose from bowls of porridge sweetened with honey, plates of eggs, and fresh bread still warm from the ovens.
Jon Snow sat beside his half-brother Robb, both boys devouring their food with the ravenous appetite of active ten-year-olds. Jon's purple eyes—so unlike the Stark gray or Tully blue that dominated the high table—darted occasionally toward Lady Catelyn, careful not to draw her attention. As always, she had seated him far enough from her to make her feelings clear, yet not so distant as to invite comment from Lord Stark.
"No! No!" came the stubborn cry from little Arya, who at five years old had developed a formidable will that belied her tiny stature. She pushed away the spoon of mashed turnips Lady Catelyn was attempting to feed her.
"Arya," Lady Catelyn sighed, her patience clearly wearing thin. "You must eat something besides bread."
"No turnips!" Arya declared, crossing her arms over her chest.
Jon couldn't help but chuckle at his little half-sister's defiance. Of all his siblings, Arya seemed to like him best, often toddling over to him whenever he entered a room, much to Lady Catelyn's poorly concealed dismay.
"What do you think Ser Rodrik has planned for us today?" Robb asked, nudging Jon with his elbow and pulling his attention away from Arya's breakfast rebellion. "More footwork drills?"
Jon grimaced. "I hope not. My legs still ache from yesterday."
"Mine too," Robb admitted, lowering his voice. "But I didn't want to say anything. Father says a lord never complains about training."
Jon nodded solemnly. "Well, I'm not a lord, so I can complain all I want," he replied with a grin.
Robb laughed, nearly choking on his milk. "Lucky bastard."
Jon's smile faded for a moment, but he decided to ignore the small little voice in his head, telling him that he was more than a bastard.
"When we're older," Robb continued, eyes bright with excitement, "we should travel south together. Visit the great tournaments, become knights like in the stories."
"Knights?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "Northmen don't typically become knights. It's a southern tradition, with the Seven and all."
"So? We could be the first. The Knight of Winterfell and..." Robb trailed off, searching for an appropriate title.
"The Bastard of Winterfell doesn't have quite the same ring to it," Jon said dryly.
"No, you'd be... the Purple Knight! For your eyes," Robb decided, nodding as if the matter were settled.
Jon rolled those same purple eyes. "Very fearsome."
"It could be!" Robb protested. "Besides, did you know the Daynes of Starfall sometimes have purple eyes too? And they have the most famous knight in all the Seven Kingdoms—the Sword of the Morning."
Jon knew this, of course. Maester Luwin had once told him that his unusual eye color likely came from his mother, though his father never confirmed this. The Daynes were one possibility, though Lord Stark had never named Jon's mother, no matter how many times he'd worked up the courage to ask.
Their conversation was interrupted as Jory Cassel, captain of the household guard, approached Lord Stark with a sealed letter. Ned read it quickly, his expression warming.
"Good news, my lord?" Lady Catelyn asked, having finally surrendered to Arya's demands and replaced the turnips with berries.
"Indeed. Lord Wyman Manderly will be paying us a visit. He should arrive within the week," Ned replied.
Robb turned to Jon with wide eyes. "Lord Manderly? From White Harbor?"
"How many other Manderlys do you know?" Jon teased, but he too was surprised. Visitors to Winterfell were relatively rare, especially noble houses bringing their entire families.
"White Harbor?" Sansa, who at seven years old was already showing signs of Lady Catelyn's beauty and grace, perked up immediately. "Are they bringing ladies? Real southern ladies?" Her voice rose with each word, nearly reaching a squeal by the end.
"Not southern ladies, Sansa," Ned corrected gently. "The Manderlys may follow the Seven, but they are Northmen now and have been for a hundred of years."
"Still," Lady Catelyn added, smoothing Sansa's auburn hair, "the Manderly girls are said to be very well-mannered. You'll have new friends to play with."
"Is it true, Father?" Sansa asked, blue eyes wide with excitement.
"Yes, Lord Manderly travels with his two sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel, and his granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla. They're near Robb and Jon's age, I believe."
Jon felt a small flutter of both excitement and anxiety. New children to play with could be wonderful—or terrible, depending on how they viewed baseborn children. Most noble visitors either ignored him entirely or regarded him with poorly concealed disdain.
"Robb," Lord Stark continued, his voice taking on the tone he used for lessons, "you'll be expected to represent House Stark properly. Lord Manderly is one of our most important bannermen."
"Yes, Father," Robb replied, sitting up straighter.
Jon tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course his father hadn't included him in the instruction—he wasn't a Stark, not truly. He was just the bastard, tolerated but not expected to participate in formal duties. He doubted the Manderly granddaughters would have any interest in his company once they learned his surname was Snow.
"Jon," Lord Stark added unexpectedly, "you as well. You both represent this house."
Jon's head snapped up, purple eyes wide with surprise. "Yes, my lord," he managed, a warm feeling spreading through his chest at the inclusion.
Lady Catelyn's lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing. Across the table, baby Arya chose that moment to fling a berry with surprising accuracy, landing it directly in Jon's porridge and giggling wildly when it splashed.
"Arya!" Lady Catelyn scolded, but Jon just laughed, fishing out the berry and popping it into his mouth with a conspiratorial wink at his little sister.
.
.
The training yard echoed with the clack of wooden swords and the grunts of exertion as boys of various ages practiced under Ser Rodrik Cassel's watchful eye. The old master-at-arms barked corrections when needed, his magnificent white whiskers quivering with each shout.
Jon and Robb faced each other in the center of the yard, wooden practice swords at the ready. A light snow had begun to fall, dusting the ground and their hair with delicate flakes that melted almost instantly upon contact with their overheated skin.
"Ready, Snow?" Robb called, his breath visible in the cold air.
"Always, Stark," Jon answered with a grin.
They circled each other, practice swords extended. Jon felt the familiar calm settle over him, the strange clarity that always came during training. His body seemed to know what to do before his mind could even process it—a gift, Ser Rodrik had called it, though the old knight qualified this by adding that Jon still needed much more practice.
Robb lunged forward with a quick thrust aimed at Jon's midsection. Jon sidestepped nimbly, the movement so fluid it almost felt as if the very air were helping him along. He'd always been quick—quicker than Robb, quicker than all the boys of his age—and it gave him an advantage despite Robb's slightly greater strength.
"Too slow!" Jon taunted, dancing away from another swing.
"Stand still and fight, then!" Robb countered, pressing forward with renewed determination.
Their wooden swords met with a series of rapid clacks as they exchanged blows. Jon parried one strike, then another, feeling that strange awareness guiding his movements. The world seemed to slow around him, and he could almost predict where Robb's next attack would fall.
When Robb swung at his right side, Jon was already moving to block, catching the wooden blade with his own. In the same move, he pivoted and struck Robb's chest with what he intended to be a light tap.
Jon's wooden sword touched Robb's chest, and a sudden gust of wind seemed to erupt from the point of contact. Robb's eyes widened in shock as he was lifted clean off his feet and thrown backward through the air, landing with a heavy thud in a snowdrift more than a meter away.
The training yard fell silent. Every boy stopped mid-swing to stare. Even Ser Rodrik stood frozen, his weathered face a mask of astonishment.
Jon stared at his own hands in disbelief, then at the wooden sword, then at Robb sprawled in the snow. Had he really hit him that hard? Impossible—he wasn't nearly strong enough to send Robb flying like that.
"Seven hells!" Robb exclaimed, scrambling to his feet with excitement rather than anger. Snow clung to his auburn hair and clothes as he rushed back to Jon. "How did you do that? You have to teach me!"
"I... I don't know," Jon stammered, genuinely confused. "I didn't mean to hit you so hard."
"Hard?" Robb laughed incredulously. "Jon, you threw me through the air! It was like... like magic or something!"
Ser Rodrik strode over, his expression stern. "Lord Robb, there's no need for such theatrics in training. Flinging yourself backward might seem amusing, but you could break a bone if you land wrong."
"But I didn't do it on purpose!" Robb protested. "Jon hit me, and I just... flew backward! I swear by the old gods, Ser Rodrik. Ask anyone who saw!"
The master-at-arms turned to Jon, bushy eyebrows raised in question.
"I only meant to tap him," Jon said quietly, confusion evident in his voice. "I don't know what happened."
Several of the other boys nodded in agreement.
"Must have been the ice," Ser Rodrik concluded after a moment's consideration. "You slipped on a patch of ice just as Jon struck you. It happens."
But Jon knew there had been no ice. And from the look on Robb's face, so did he. Something else had happened—something neither of them could explain.
As training resumed, Jon couldn't help but think of his dreams—dreams where he commanded the elements with a mere gesture, where wind and fire obeyed his will. Dreams that felt more like memories than fantasies.
He looked down at his hand, still gripping the wooden sword, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw the air itself rippling around his fingers, like heat above a summer road.
"Jon!" Ser Rodrik's voice snapped him back to reality. "Focus, boy! Back to positions!"
Jon shook his head to clear it and returned to his stance. But as he raised his practice sword once more, a whisper seemed to brush against his consciousness—a woman's voice:
"The air responds to your will, young Avatar. It has awakened first, as it often does."
Jon glanced around, looking for the source of the voice, but there was no one near him except Robb, who was watching him with curious eyes.
"Are you all right?" Robb asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Jon replied automatically, though he was far from certain this was true. "Just... thinking."
"Well, think about how you're going to teach me that trick," Robb grinned, raising his wooden sword again. "Because that was the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
Jon managed a weak smile in return, but his mind was elsewhere—the voice felt familiar.
.
.
The Winterfell library was Jon's sanctuary. Unlike the Great Hall, where Lady Catelyn's gaze reminded him constantly of his place, or the training yard, where he was always "the bastard" no matter how well he performed, the library treated all seekers of knowledge equally. Here, among the dusty tomes and ancient scrolls, Jon could forget for a while that he was Jon Snow and simply be a boy with questions.
The chamber was smaller than one might expect for an ancient castle. Oak shelves lined the circular walls, reaching from floor to ceiling, each crammed with leather-bound volumes in various states of preservation. Narrow windows set high in the walls allowed wan northern light to filter through, supplemented by scattered candles and oil lamps.
Jon sat cross-legged on a bench at one of the heavy wooden tables, a stack of books beside him and one open before him. He'd been here since midday when Ser Rodrik had dismissed them from training earlier than usual—perhaps still unsettled by the strange incident with Robb.
Though he'd never admit it aloud, Jon took pride in his studiousness. Maester Luwin had once mentioned to Lord Stark within Jon's hearing that the boy had asked to learn his letters at four namedays, while Robb hadn't shown interest until he was nearly seven. It was a small thing, but Jon cherished such distinctions—they were rare enough in his life.
"House Manderly," Jon read softly to himself, finger tracing along the elegant script. "Originally from the Reach, they were driven from their lands by House Gardener and found refuge in the North when King Stark granted them White Harbor in return for their oath of fealty."
The book contained detailed descriptions of White Harbor itself—the only true city in the North, built entirely of white stone, with wide clean streets and a magnificent harbor where trading ships from across the Narrow Sea docked year-round. Jon tried to imagine it, so different from Winterfell's ancient grey stone and the simple wooden buildings of Winter Town.
He flipped forward, finding a section on House Manderly's customs. Unlike most northern houses, they followed the Faith of the Seven rather than the old gods, a remnant of their southern origins. They maintained a sept rather than a godswood as their primary place of worship. And, most intriguingly to a hungry boy of ten, they were famously fond of feasts and food, Lord Wyman himself being reportedly so fat he could no longer sit a horse.
Jon grinned, wondering if it was true. He'd never seen a man too fat to ride.
The afternoon wore on, and Jon barely noticed as the light from the windows dimmed. He'd lit a single candle in a brass holder beside his book, its warm glow sufficient for his purposes. He was so engrossed in a description of the Merman's Court, where Lord Manderly held audiences while seated on a throne carved in the shape of a massive sea creature, that he didn't hear the library door open.
A sudden draft swept through the chamber, extinguishing his candle with a soft hiss.
"Oh, come on," Jon groaned, setting down the book and preparing to stand. He'd need to retrieve the tinderbox from Maester Luwin's workbench across the room to relight it.
But before he could rise, the strangest thing happened. The candle's wick, still smoking slightly from being so recently extinguished, suddenly flared back to life. A small, steady flame appeared as if conjured from thin air, casting its familiar warm glow once more across the pages of his book.
Jon stared, mouth slightly open in shock. He blinked several times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him in the dimness.
"What in the seven hells...?" he whispered, glancing around the library. He was alone—or appeared to be.
First wind in the training yard, and now fire in the library? Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the perpetual northern cold. Was he losing his mind? Were his strange dreams somehow bleeding into the waking world?
"Ah, Jon. I knew I would find you here," came a familiar voice, interrupting his spiraling thoughts.
Jon looked up to see Maester Luwin approaching, his grey robes swishing softly against the stone floor and the chain of his office clinking gently with each step. The old man's kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, nodding toward the open book.
"House Manderly, I see," the maester observed, leaning slightly to examine the page. "Preparing for our visitors already?"
Jon nodded, grateful for the distraction from what had just happened. "Yes, Maester. I wanted to know more about them before they arrive. Father says first impressions are important."
"Indeed they are," Luwin agreed, settling onto the bench opposite Jon. "Though I suspect the young Manderly ladies will be more interested in your swordplay than your knowledge of their family history."
"Still," Jon said, "better to know than not know."
The maester's smile widened. "A scholar's mindset. You remind me sometimes of—" He stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.
Jon's curiosity piqued, but he let it pass. Instead, he glanced around the library once more, confirming they were truly alone. Making a decision, he closed the book and leaned forward.
"Maester Luwin, may I ask you something?"
"Of course, Jon," the maester replied warmly. "A mind without questions is like a lamp without oil—it gives no light."
"Has there ever been a time... I mean, do the books mention any period in history when people could do strange things with elements? Like water, air, fire, and earth?" As he spoke, fragments of his dreams flashed through his mind—a woman raising walls of stone with a gesture, a man summoning water from a field of flowers around him.
Luwin's expression softened with understanding. "Ah. You've had another dream, haven't you?"
Jon nodded, suddenly feeling foolish. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked.
"Well," the maester said thoughtfully, stroking his chin, "if we were to believe everything written in the oldest books, the Children of the Forest supposedly used powerful earth magic to shatter the Arm of Dorne—the land bridge that once connected Westeros to Essos. They allegedly called upon the waters to flood the land, drowning thousands of First Men who were invading their territories."
"Do you believe that story?" Jon asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Luwin's eyes twinkled. "What I believe, young Jon, is that our ancestors were capable of far more than we give them credit for. The further back we look in history, the more the line blurs between fact and legend." He adjusted his maester's chain, the various metal links clinking together. "Perhaps they had knowledge or abilities that have been lost to time. Perhaps the stories grew in the telling."
Jon considered this. "Are there other stories? About controlling elements?"
"Hmm," Luwin mused. "The most well-known tales would be those of the White Walkers beyond the Wall. Old Nan would tell you they could control ice and bring terrible snowstorms with their march. The legends say their arrival brought the Long Night—a winter that lasted a generation, where children were born, grew up, and died without ever seeing spring."
A chill ran down Jon's spine at the description, though he wasn't sure why. "Did they exist? The White Walkers?"
"If they did," Luwin replied, his tone turning more practical, "they've been gone for eight thousand years. Most maesters believe they never existed at all—merely tales to frighten children into behaving." He smiled kindly. "Like grumkins and snarks."
Jon nodded, trying not to show his disappointment. He'd hoped for... well, he wasn't sure what exactly. Some explanation for the strange occurrences? Some confirmation that his dreams weren't mere fantasy?
"Why do you ask, Jon?" Luwin inquired gently. "These dreams seem to trouble you."
Jon hesitated, glancing at the candle that had mysteriously relit itself. Should he tell the maester what had happened in the training yard? About the wind that had sent Robb flying? About the flame that had appeared without flint or tinder?
"It's just..." Jon began, but faltered. Even to his own ears, it would sound mad. "They feel so real. Not like normal dreams at all. More like... memories."
Luwin reached across the table and patted Jon's hand. "The mind is a mysterious thing, far more complex than even the Citadel understands. Dreams can seem extraordinarily real, especially to imaginative young minds."
"But what if they're more than dreams?" Jon persisted. "What if—"
The library door swung open again, admitting Septa Mordane, who was leading Sansa by the hand. The stern-faced woman nodded curtly to Maester Luwin before guiding Sansa toward the shelves containing books on noble houses and their genealogies.
The moment for confidences had passed. Jon sighed and began gathering his books to return them to their shelves.
"Thank you, Maester Luwin," he said quietly.
The old man studied him with kind but penetrating eyes. "If these dreams continue to trouble you, Jon, you can always come to me. Day or night."
Jon nodded gratefully, but as he placed the books back on their shelves, his mind returned to the mystery of the self-lighting candle. He glanced back at it, still burning steadily where he'd left it.
In his mind, a voice that wasn't his own whispered: "Fire is life, young Avatar. It responds to your will because it recognizes your spirit."
Jon shook his head sharply, dispelling the strange thought. He was Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell. Not some mystical figure from his dreams. Not someone who could command the elements.
Yet as he left the library, he couldn't help but wonder—if he were to hold out his hand and will the flame to come to him, would it obey?
He wasn't yet brave enough to try.
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