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The spirit realm shimmered with ethereal light as five figures materialized in a circle. The Avatar Council had convened once again, their expressions ranging from concerned to deeply troubled.
"His firebending is completely gone," Yangchen said without preamble, her serene face marred by worry. "This should not be possible. Given his heritage, fire should be his strongest element, not his most elusive."
Aang's tattooed head tilted thoughtfully. "Maybe it's just his weak element? I couldn't earthbend properly for the longest time. Remember how I kept dancing around instead of standing firm? It wasn't until Toph threatened to let that giant bull stomp Sokka that I finally—"
"This is different, Aang," Kuruk interrupted. "You found earthbending difficult to learn, yes, but once you learned it, you didn't suddenly forget how to do it. Jon had firebending. He created flames with Roku's guidance. Now it's as if that ability never existed, as if someone blowed out a candle."
Roku stroked his beard, flames flickering around his form. "I have tried and told him to practice all the things we did back in...Winterfell, hoping it would come back to him, yet nothing worked, if anything I was telling him to do a practise for novice firebending last night, and instead he started Waterbending. It's as if something is actively blocking his connection to fire."
"Meanwhile, his waterbending advances at an alarming rate," Yangchen observed. "Far too quickly for natural progression. Today he created a knife made of water and froze it without proper training."
"That's what worries me," Kyoshi said, her painted face set in hard lines. "Korys has been suspiciously active lately. And now suddenly Jon's abilities are... unbalanced."
Aang's expression brightened with hope, knowing that Korys was a fellow Airnomad like him and Yangchen, well, at least an Avatar from what used to be the Air People back then. "Maybe Korys is finally trying to help? He's been alone for so long—"
"Help?" Kyoshi's voice cut like a blade. "Korys has never spoken to any of us. Not once in all these centuries. He's the second Avatar, yet he's maintained complete silence. Now, suddenly, when we're in this new world, he decides to become involved?"
"Perhaps that's exactly why," Roku suggested diplomatically. "This world is unlike anything we've experienced. No spirits, no bending traditions, no spiritual energy as we know it. Maybe this change prompted him to finally engage."
Kuruk scoffed. "Or maybe he sees an opportunity. A young Avatar, isolated from proper guidance, in a world that would call his abilities dark magic? Perfect conditions for manipulation."
"You're being paranoid," Aang protested, feeling defensive. "Korys is still one of us. He's still an Avatar. That has to count for something."
"Does it?" Kyoshi's eyes flashed. "He mentioned the Avatar title to Jon prematurely. That was reckless at best, dangerous at worst. In this world, such knowledge could get the boy killed."
Yangchen raised a calming hand. "What troubles me most is the pattern. Jon's firebending disappears just as his waterbending accelerates. It's as if his spiritual energy is being... redirected."
"You think someone is actively interfering?" Roku asked.
"I think we need to consider the possibility," Yangchen replied carefully. "The Avatar State is meant to be balanced. Four elements in harmony. If one is artificially suppressed..."
"The others could become dangerously amplified," Kuruk finished grimly. "I've seen what happens when an Avatar loses control of water. Entire islands can sink like paper boats."
Roku looked between his fellow Avatars with growing alarm. "So what do we do? Jon needs guidance, but if Korys is somehow—"
"We don't know that he is," Aang interrupted. "These are suspicions, not facts."
"Suspicions worth investigating," Kyoshi countered. "I propose we watch Korys carefully. And we need to accelerate Jon's training in the other elements."
"Without proper spiritual foundations?" Yangchen shook her head. "That could be more dangerous than leaving him untrained."
Kuruk crossed his arms. "The boy is already dangerous. He is already able to make ice daggers, it won't take long for him to start using more complex water bending moves."
"He is learning his element," Aang said firmly. "That matters more than secrecy."
"Not if it gets him burned as a witch," Kyoshi replied bluntly.
The circle fell silent, each Avatar lost in their own thoughts. The spirit realm pulsed around them, responsive to their collective unease.
Finally, Roku spoke. "We need more information before we make any decisions. I'll continue working with Jon on firebending, but I'll also observe carefully for any... outside interference."
"And I'll watch Korys," Kyoshi said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Aang sighed. "I still think we're jumping to conclusions. But... I'll be ready to step in if Jon needs me."
Yangchen nodded slowly. "Then we're agreed. We proceed with caution, but we proceed. Jon cannot be left to navigate this alone."
"Especially not in this world," Kuruk muttered. "Where power like his is seen as an abomination."
Jon Snow
The tournament grounds buzzed with excitement as Jon settled onto the wooden bench beside Wylla. Colorful banners snapped in the sea breeze—the merman of Manderly, the direwolf of Stark, and dozens of other house sigils creating a vibrant tapestry against the blue sky.
Wylla had indeed saved him a seat, just as Robb had said. When Jon arrived, slightly out of breath from his rushed departure from the training yard, he found her sitting with her back ramrod straight, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who even glanced toward the empty space beside her.
"You're late," she said without looking at him, though Jon could see the corner of her mouth twitching upward in a suppressed smile.
"I'm sorry," Jon replied, genuinely contrite. "My business took longer than expected."
Wylla finally turned to face him, her sea-green eyes searching his face. "What kind of business keeps a person from watching Ser Donnel Waynwood try to hit targets while riding a horse? This should be entertaining—the man can barely stay upright when his mount is standing still."
Jon laughed despite the weight of Nymeria's revelations still pressing on his mind. "I'll make it up to you. I promise I won't miss another event."
"See that you don't," Wylla said with mock severity, then spoiled the effect by grinning and taking his hand. "Now watch. The mounted archery is about to begin, and I have it on good authority that Lord Hornwood's eldest is going to make a complete fool of himself."
The first competitor, a young knight from House Tallhart, managed to hit two of his three targets, drawing polite applause from the crowd. The second, Lord Hornwood's son, missed all three spectacularly, one arrow sailing so wide it nearly struck a serving boy carrying refreshments.
"Told you," Wylla whispered, giggling behind her hand. "Poor Marcus. He's much better with a sword than a bow."
Jon found himself too relaxed. There was something soothing about sitting here with Wylla, watching the familiar rhythm of competition, feeling the warmth of her hand in his. The terrible dreams of the night before and the confusing revelations about Ashara Dayne seemed distant, manageable.
"Jon," Wylla said during a lull between competitors, her tone more serious than before. "What was your business with Nymeria Sand? You looked... troubled when you left the training yard."
Jon's stomach clenched. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask, though he should have known better. Wylla was too observant.
"It was about my mother," he said finally, the words feeling strange on his tongue.
Wylla's grip on his hand tightened slightly. "Your mother? But I thought..." She trailed off, clearly uncertain how to proceed.
"I don't know anything about her," Jon explained, grateful that Wylla didn't finish her thought. Most people assumed his mother was some tavern wench or camp follower—common speculation about bastards. "Lord Stark has never told me. Nymeria suggested she might know something."
"And did she? Know something, I mean?"
Jon nodded slowly. "She mentioned a name. Lady Ashara Dayne."
"The sister of Ser Arthur Dayne? The Sword of the Morning?"
"You know of her?"
"Only stories. Septa Mordane used to tell us tales of the great beauties of Westeros when Wynafryd and I were younger. Lady Ashara was supposed to be one of the most beautiful women who ever lived, with these remarkable violet eyes." Wylla tilted her head, studying Jon's face. "Eyes rather like yours, now that I think of it. Do you think she was telling the truth?"
Jon was quiet for a moment, watching as another rider took the field
"I want it to be true," he admitted. "I've always wondered what she looked like, what kind of person she was. In my dreams, she's always been faceless, but beautiful. Highborn. Someone who might have... loved my father, instead of just..."
"Instead of just being seduced by him?" Wylla finished gently.
Jon nodded, grateful she understood without him having to say it. In his mind, he tried to picture Ashara Dayne as Wylla had described her—a great beauty with violet eyes like his own. Perhaps she'd had dark hair too, which would explain his coloring. Maybe she'd been gentle and kind, with a musical laugh and graceful hands. The image felt right somehow, filling a hollow space in his heart he'd carried for as long as he could remember.
Closing his eyes, Jon could almost see her, he could almost hear her voice, talking to him. How much he wished he could hear her calling him 'Son.'
A title Lord Stark never used for him.
"She sounds like she was worthy of being your mother," Wylla said softly. "Though I still think you're pretty wonderful regardless of who she was."
Jon's face burned even hotter at the compliment, and he was saved from having to respond by another blast of the herald's horn. The mounted archery was ending, making way for the foot races.
"Will you compete in the youth melee tomorrow?" Wylla asked as they watched young men of various ages line up for the first race. "Father's organized competitions for boys your age and older. The winner gets a purse of silver stags."
Jon considered this. He was skilled with a sword for his age, thanks to Ser Rodrik's patient instruction and countless hours in Winterfell's practice yard. "I suppose I could. Would you watch?"
"Of course!" Wylla's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "I'll be your good luck charm. Maybe I'll even give you my favor to carry."
The idea of carrying Wylla's favor—some ribbon or piece of jewelry that marked him as her chosen champion—made Jon's pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with combat nerves.
"I'd be honored," he managed.
"Good," Wylla said with satisfaction. "Then it's settled." She squeezed his hand again. "Oh, and I have something else planned for later today. After the tournament events end."
"What kind of something?"
"A surprise," she said mysteriously. "I've arranged for a boat trip. You, me, Wynafryd, your siblings, and some of the other young nobles. We'll sail out into the Bite for a few hours—see White Harbor from the water, maybe spot some whales if we're lucky."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Are you planning to take us all the way to Essos?"
Wylla laughed, the sound bright and musical. "I've been to Essos, actually. Grandfather took us to Braavos two summers ago on business. But that would take days, and I suspect your father would have something to say about it if we disappeared for that long."
"You've been to Braavos?" Jon asked, impressed despite himself.
"It's beautiful," Wylla said, her eyes growing distant with memory. "All those canals and bridges, and the Titan standing guard over the harbor. The people are so different from Northerners—more colorful, more... dramatic, I suppose. Everything is commerce and art and debate." She focused on Jon again. "But I like White Harbor better. It's home."
Jon found himself smiling at her enthusiasm. "How long will this boat trip last?"
"Just a few hours. Long enough to get away from the castle, have some proper fun without Septas and protocol masters breathing down our necks." She leaned closer conspiratorially. "I may have also arranged for the kitchen to pack some of those lemon cakes you seem to enjoy so much."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice lots of things about you, Jon Snow," Wylla said, her cheeks pinking slightly. "You always take two lemon cakes but eat them slowly, like you're trying to make them last. And you get this little smile when you taste the lemon curd—like it reminds you of something good."
Before Jon could respond to this thoughtfulness, a tremendous cheer erupted from the crowd. One of the Umber boys had won the foot race by a considerable margin, and was now jogging a victory lap around the field with his arms raised.
"That's Big Jon Umber's youngest," Wylla explained. "They breed them large in the Last Hearth."
As they watched the award ceremony, Jon felt a contentment he hadn't experienced in some time. Here, sitting in the sun with Wylla's hand in his, watching contests of skill and strength, the weight of his mysterious abilities seemed lighter. Whatever questions surrounded him, whatever powers stirred within him, right now he was just Jon Snow, watching a tournament with a girl who cared enough to notice how he ate lemon cakes.
It was, Jon thought, a very good feeling indeed.
As the last of the day's competitions wound down—a surprisingly entertaining contest involving young squires attempting to catch greased pigs—Wylla tugged on Jon's sleeve.
"Come on," she said, pulling him to his feet. "I want to show you something before we gather the others for our adventure."
Jon allowed himself to be led through the dispersing crowd, past vendors packing up their wares and nobles stretching legs stiff from hours of sitting. Wylla guided him toward the harbor, where the setting sun painted the water in shades of gold and amber.
"There," she said proudly, pointing toward a sleek vessel moored at one of the private docks. "The Maiden's Dance. She's ours for the evening."
Jon whistled low, impressed despite himself. The boat was considerably larger than he'd expected—a proper sailing vessel, complete with a small cabin and what appeared to be a well-appointed deck area. White and blue pennants bearing the Manderly merman flew from her mast.
"This is what you call a 'small boat trip'?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.
Wylla grinned. "I may have understated things slightly. Grandfather believes in doing things properly. When I told him I wanted to take some friends sailing, he insisted we use one of his better ships."
"And who exactly are these friends?" Jon inquired, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Well, you, obviously, I already told you." Wylla said, counting on her fingers. "Wynafryd, because she threatened to tell Grandfather about the secret passages if I didn't invite her. Your brother Robb, because he's charming and Wynafryd thinks he's handsome—though don't tell either of them I said that."
Jon made a mental note to absolutely tell Robb that at the first opportunity.
"Then there's little Arya, because she looked so disappointed when she heard about the tournament being mostly for older children. And I thought we might invite some of the other young nobles—the Hornwood boy, maybe one of the Karstarks. Keep it small but merry."
"That's hardly small," Jon pointed out. "And what about guards?"
"Captain Torrhen and six of our best men," Wylla replied promptly. "Grandfather was very specific about that. We're not to leave the harbor without proper protection, and we're not to stay out past sunset."
"Proper Protection, are seadragons going to attack the ship while we are sailing?" Jon joked, earning a giggle from the beautiful girl beside him.
"That might be a possibility, but there hasn't been seen a Sea Dragon for decades in our waters." Wylla said, and Jon was sure she sounded like she was just denied a dog.
Jon studied the vessel more carefully, noting the practical details. The Maiden's Dance was clearly built for comfort rather than speed, with a broad beam that would make her stable in rough waters and extensive deck space for passengers. Still, something nagged at him.
"The weather's been fair all week," he said slowly. "But the harbor master mentioned earlier that there were storm clouds gathering out to sea."
Wylla waved dismissively. "That's why we're staying close to shore. Captain Torrhen has been sailing these waters for thirty years—he'd never take us out if there was any real danger. Besides, a little wind and spray just makes it more exciting."
That's exactly what I'm afraid of. "So what's the route?" he asked instead.
"We'll sail north along the coast first," Wylla explained, her hands tracing the path in the air. "There are some beautiful coves up that way where seals like to sun themselves on the rocks. Then we'll swing east toward the deeper waters where we might see whales—it's the right season for them to be migrating south."
She paused, her eyes bright with anticipation. "The really spectacular part comes on the return journey. We'll approach White Harbor from the sea as the sun sets, and you'll see the city the way visitors do—with all the lights beginning to twinkle and the castle rising up from the water like something from a song."
Jon found himself caught up in her vision despite his lingering concerns. "It does sound beautiful."
"It is," Wylla assured him. "I've done this trip dozens of times with my family, but never with..." She trailed off, a blush creeping up her neck. "Never with someone I wanted to share it with."
The simple honesty of the statement made Jon's chest tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"When do we leave?" he asked.
"As soon as everyone's gathered and the kitchen finishes loading our provisions," Wylla replied.
"And you're certain Captain Torrhen is comfortable with this plan?"
"Completely. He helped me plot the course, actually. Suggested the seal coves and the whale watching spots." Wylla looked at him more seriously. "Jon, if you're worried about something, we don't have to go. I'd rather know now than have you spend the whole trip worried."
"No," he said. "I think it sounds wonderful. I'm looking forward to seeing White Harbor from the water."
Wylla's smile returned full force. "Excellent! Then let's go collect the others. Robb's probably wondering where you've disappeared to, and Arya gets impatient when she's kept waiting."
Later
Jon stood outside his father's chamber door for a full minute, working up the courage to knock. The corridor was quiet—most of the castle's inhabitants were either resting after the day's events or preparing for the evening feast. Through the thick oak door, he could hear the faint scratch of quill on parchment, suggesting Lord Stark was working on correspondence.
Just ask him directly, Jon told himself. No more dancing around the subject. Demand the truth.
He knocked firmly, three sharp raps that echoed down the stone hallway.
"Enter," came his father's voice, distracted and somewhat weary.
Jon pushed open the door and stepped inside. Ned Stark sat at a writing desk near the window, still dressed in his formal clothes. Scrolls and letters were scattered across the desk's surface, along with Lord Manderly's seal and a stick of red wax.
"Jon," Ned said, looking up with surprise. "I thought you'd be with Robb, celebrating the day's competitions."
"I need to speak with you, Father," Jon said, closing the door firmly behind him. "About something important."
Ned set down his quill and turned in his chair to face Jon properly. "Of course. What's troubling you?"
"My mother," Jon said without preamble. "I want to know who she was."
The familiar shadow crossed Ned's features—the same expression he'd worn every time this subject arose. "Jon, we've spoken of this before. Your mother died long ago. There's nothing to be gained by—"
"No," Jon interrupted, his voice sharper than he'd intended. "Not your usual words about her finding peace. I want her name. I want to know who she was, where she came from.
"I'm ten years old," Jon continued. "Old enough to fight with a sword, old enough to understand death and war and politics. Surely I'm old enough to know my own mother's name."
"Some knowledge carries burdens you're not ready to bear," Ned replied, his tone growing firmer. "When you're older, when you've seen more of the world—"
"When I'm older?" Jon's frustration bubbled over into anger. "How much older? Fifteen? Twenty? Will you still be saying I'm too young when I'm a man grown?"
As Jon's voice rose, something strange happened. The water pitcher on Ned's washstand began to tremble, causing tiny ripples to spread across its surface.
"Jon, calm yourself," Ned said, rising from his chair. "I understand your curiosity, but there are reasons—good reasons—why some things must wait."
"What reasons?" Jon demanded. "What could possibly be so terrible about my mother that you can't even speak her name? Was she a tavern wench? A camp follower? Some farmer's daughter you seduced and abandoned?"
Ned's face darkened. "How dare you say those words of your mother in my presence?"
"Then tell me about her!" Jon shouted, his hands clenching into fists. "Tell me something, anything, that makes her real!"
The water in the pitcher began to slosh more violently, as if the chamber had been struck by a minor earthquake.
Jon took a deep breath, trying to control himself. "I know about Ashara Dayne," he said, his voice deadly quiet.
Ned went very still."What did you say?" Ned's voice was barely a whisper.
"Ashara Dayne," Jon repeated, watching his father's reaction with growing certainty that he'd struck close to something important. "Sister to Ser Arthur Dayne. They say she was beautiful, with purple eyes like mine. They say you met her at the Tourney of Harrenhal, that you danced with her."
"Who told you that name?" Ned asked, his voice tight with something that might have been panic.
"Does it matter?" Jon shot back while some tears were coming out of his purple eyes. "Is it true? Is Ashara Dayne my mother?"
Ned was quiet for a long moment, his gray eyes distant as if seeing into the past. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of old pain.
"Never," he said with quiet intensity, "speak that name again. Do you understand me?
The water pitcher rattled more violently on its stand, and several droplets splashed over the rim onto the floor.
"Why?" Jon pressed, sensing he was close to something crucial. "If she's not my mother, why does her name affect you so? What happened to her?"
"She's dead," Ned said flatly. "She was an honorable Lady. And that's all you need to know."
"But why won't you tell me—"
"Because Ashara Dayne is not your mother," Ned said with finality. "Whatever stories you've heard, whatever romantic notions people have filled your head with, they're wrong."
"And you're too young to understand—"
"I'm too young?" Jon exploded.
The water in the pitcher suddenly erupted upward in a geyser that struck the ceiling before crashing back down, soaking the floor and splashing across Ned's writing desk. Both father and son stared at the mess in shock.
"What is that," Ned muttered, stepping fastly in the direction of Jon.
"Jon?" Ned was looking at him with concern. "Are you all right?
"Tell me who she was," he said, his voice quiet but determined. "Please, Father. I have the right to know."
Ned's expression softened, and for a moment Jon thought he might actually get an answer. But then the familiar shutters came down over his father's features.
"Not yet," Ned said gently. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but not yet. When you're older—"
"When I'm older, I'll hate you for keeping this from me,"
Ned flinched as if Jon had struck him. "You have every right to your anger," he said quietly. "But I am sure that someday you'll understand why I must stay silent now."
Jon was already yanking open the door. "I'm going on a boat trip with Wylla and the others," he said without turning around.
He slammed the door behind him, leaving Ned alone with his soaked papers and his guilty conscience.
As Jon stormed down the corridor, his mind churned with frustration and unanswered questions. If Ashara Dayne wasn't his mother, then who was? And why did the mere mention of her name affect his father so deeply?
One thing was certain—he was tired of being treated like a child too young for the truth. Whatever secrets surrounded his birth, whatever burdens came with knowing them, Jon was ready to bear them.
Whether his father was ready or not.
Behind him, unnoticed in his anger, small puddles of water marked his path down the stone corridor, droplets that had somehow clung to his boots.
But Jon's thoughts were elsewhere, focused on his frustration and the bitter taste of secrets kept. The strange behavior of water around him would have to remain a mystery for now.
.
.
Jon stomped up the gangplank of the Maiden's Dance with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his execution. The boat rocked gently in the calm harbor, but his mood was anything but peaceful. Every step seemed to echo with his father's words: Not yet. When you're older. You're too young to understand.
"There you are!" Robb called out cheerfully from the deck. "We were beginning to think you'd changed your mind about joining us."
Jon forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Just had something to finish with Father."
Arya bounded over from where she'd been examining the ship's rigging with obvious fascination.
"This is brilliant!" she exclaimed, grabbing Jon's hand. "Captain Torrhen says there might be whales, and Wylla promised we could fish if we see any good spots.
"That sounds wonderful." Jon said flatly.
Arya's face fell slightly at his tone, but before she could ask what was wrong, Wylla appeared at his elbow.
"Jon," she said warmly, though her sea-green eyes searched his face with concern. "I was starting to worry you might miss our departure."
"I'm here," Jon replied, though even he could hear how flat his voice sounded.
Wylla studied him for a moment longer, then looped her arm through his. "Come on," she said. "Let me show you the best spot to watch for sea life. The captain says we might see seals at the northern coves."
As Wylla led him toward the bow, Jon became aware of the other passengers scattered around the deck. Wynafryd Manderly stood near the stern, deep in conversation with Robb about something that was making her laugh. Marcus Hornwood and one of the younger Karstark boys were attempting to help the crew prepare for departure, though they seemed to be more hindrance than help. Six guards in Manderly colors stood at strategic points around the ship, trying to look casual while maintaining their watch.
"Cast off!" Captain Torrhen called from the wheel. "Let's show these young lordlings what the Bite looks like from her proper side!"
The Maiden's Dance pulled away from the dock, her sails catching the evening breeze. Under normal circumstances, Jon would have been enchanted by the sensation of gliding over the water, watching White Harbor's buildings shrink behind them. Tonight, however, all he could think about was his father's evasions.
"You're very quiet," Wylla observed after they'd been sailing for nearly an hour. "Did something happen with your father?"
Jon glanced at her, noting the genuine concern in her expression. Part of him wanted to tell her everything—about his confrontation with his father. But the rest of him, the part still burning with anger and frustration, wanted to keep his problems to himself.
"Just the usual," he said curtly. "Nothing that concerns you."
Wylla's mouth tightened slightly at the dismissive tone, but she didn't press. Instead, she moved to stand beside Arya, who was hanging over the rail trying to spot marine life.
Jon remained at the bow, watching the water cut away from their hull in neat white furrows. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, but even the beautiful view couldn't lift his spirits. Every few minutes, Robb or one of the others would call out something—excitement about a distant sail, laughter at Arya's commentary on the seabirds following their wake—but Jon barely responded.
What could be so terrible about my mother's identity that he'd rather see me suffer than speak her name?
As his anger simmered, Jon began to notice something odd about the water around their boat. The waves seemed choppier than they had been when they'd left harbor, despite the steady wind. Small whitecaps appeared and disappeared without apparent cause, and the Maiden's Dance was beginning to rock more noticeably.
Marcus Hornwood said, pointing toward the northern horizon. "Is that a storm coming in?"
Jon followed his gaze and felt his stomach drop. A line of dark clouds stretched across the horizon like a bruise, moving toward them with unnatural speed. Lightning flickered within the mass, though they were still too far away to hear thunder.
Captain Torrhen appeared at the rail beside them, his weathered face creased with concern. "That came up fast," he muttered. "Too fast. We'd best head back to harbor before it reaches us."
"But we just got started," Arya protested. "And you said we might see whales!"
"The whales will still be there tomorrow, my lady," the captain replied kindly.
"We should head back," Wylla ordered the captain..
Yes, Jon thought savagely. Let's go back so I can sit in silence some more while everyone pretends I don't deserve to know who I am.
The boat lurched suddenly, throwing Arya against the rail. She laughed, but Jon saw the captain's frown as he studied the rapidly darkening sky.
"All right, that's it," the captain called. "We're returning to harbor. Everyone hold on tight."
But even as he turned the boat toward shore, Jon could see they were in trouble. The waves were growing larger by the minute, and the wind was howling now like something alive and angry. So fast that it blasted them, and many of them had to grab into something to not fly of the ship like a rock.
"This came out of nowhere," Robb said, his voice tight with concern as he helped steady some of the younger children.
Jon gripped the rail, his knuckles white. The boat pitched violently, and he could hear someone retching over the side. His own stomach churned, but not from seasickness. There was something wrong with the water, something unnatural about how it moved.
Almost like it was responding to—
The wave hit them like a giant's fist.
Jon's world exploded into chaos. One moment he was gripping the rail, the next he was flying through the air as the boat flipped completely over. The cold water hit him like a slap, driving the breath from his lungs as he plunged beneath the surface.
Down, down, down he sank, the churning water spinning him until he couldn't tell which way was up. His lungs burned for air, but every time he tried to swim upward, another current dragged him deeper.
Above him, he could hear muffled screams and splashing. Arya. Robb. Wylla. They were all up there, probably panicking, probably drowning, and he was stuck down here like a stone. He realised what had happened. The wave had turned the ship to it's side, and now was sinking.
You have to save them.
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, calm and gentle even in the chaos. Jon's eyes widened as he recognized it.
I can't! Jon thought desperately. I can't even save myself!
Yes, you can. You know how. You've always known how.
And suddenly, impossibly, Jon did know. The water around him wasn't his enemy—it was part of him. He could feel every drop, every current, every wave above him where his friends were struggling to stay afloat.
His eyes began to glow with brilliant white light.
Power flowed through him like nothing he'd ever experienced. Not the gentle warmth of firebending or the light touch of airbending, but something vast and overwhelming and right. The water responded to his will instantly, eagerly, as if it had been waiting for his command.
Jon raised his hands, and the entire harbor seemed to rise with him.
A massive wave formed beneath the struggling swimmers, lifting them up and carrying them toward shore. Jon guided it carefully, making sure everyone stayed on top, making sure no one was swept under or separated from the group.
Through the glowing power, he could sense their panic and confusion, could hear Wylla shouting his name. But he couldn't answer. All his focus was on the wave, on keeping everyone safe, on getting them home.
The shore rushed toward them, and Jon felt the wave deposit everyone safely in the shallow water before receding back into the harbor. Only then did he let the power go.
The glow faded from his eyes, and Jon collapsed.
The water closed over his head again, but this time it felt different—normal, powerless, just water. He tried to swim but his limbs felt like lead. His vision blurred, and for a terrifying moment he thought he might drown after saving everyone else.
Then strong hands grabbed him under the arms, hauling him upward until his face broke the surface.
"Jon! Jon, wake up!" Wylla's voice, frantic and close to tears.
He coughed up seawater and blinked at her. They were in the shallows now, waves lapping gently at their legs. Behind Wylla, he could see the others—Robb helping Arya to her feet, Wynafryd checking on the younger children, the guards looking stunned but alive.
"What happened?" Jon asked weakly.
Wylla stared at him for a long moment, her green eyes unreadable. "A miracle," she said finally. "The strangest wave I've ever seen just... carried us all to shore."
"Come on," she said. "Let's get you dried off before you catch your death."
As they waded toward the beach, Jon caught her looking back at the water with a thoughtful expression. But when she noticed him watching, she just squeezed his hand.
"Thank the gods we're all safe," she said.
Jon nodded, but inside he was thinking about glowing eyes and impossible waves and voices that spoke to him from thin air.
What am I becoming?
Night
Jon sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. The castle had finally settled into quiet after the chaos of their rescue—Lord Stark's relief at finding his children safe, Lord Manderly's gratitude that no lives had been lost, the maester's fussing over minor cuts and the lingering effects of near-drowning. Everyone had been seen to, warmed, fed, and reassured.
Everyone except Jon, who couldn't stop replaying what had happened in those impossible minutes in the water.
He flexed his fingers, remembering the sensation of the sea responding to his will. It had been unlike anything he'd experienced before—even more profound than when Kuruk had taken control during the archery contest. This time, Jon had been aware of everything, had felt the power flowing through him, but it hadn't felt like his own consciousness being displaced.
"It was me," he whispered to the empty room. "But it wasn't me."
The feeling reminded him of the dreams where he watched through other people's eyes—Korys's childhood, a woman named Yangchen, a man named Gunn, a woman named Tanna, a man named Tahniku—except this time, someone else had been watching through his eyes, guiding his actions while he remained in control.
Frustrated by the lack of answers, Jon extended his palm and tried once again to summon fire. He focused on the familiar techniques Roku had taught him—visualization, breath control, the inner heat that should manifest as flame.
Nothing.
"Come on," he muttered, closing his eyes and trying harder. He pictured a candle flame, small and steady. He imagined the warmth spreading from his core through his arm to his palm. He even tried to remember the feeling of his first successful firebending attempt back in Winterfell.
Still nothing.
Jon's jaw clenched with frustration. Here he was, apparently capable of creating massive waves like some figure from legend, yet he couldn't create the smallest spark. The imbalance made no sense.
"Patience."
The voice was so gentle that Jon almost missed it. He spun around, expecting to see one of the familiar blue figures—Roku, Kyoshi, Kuruk, Korys—but the chamber appeared empty.
"You did the right thing today," the voice continued, and Jon felt a presence at the edge of his perception, like warmth from a fire just outside his field of vision. "You saved them all. That matters more than any flame you might have conjured."
"Who's there?" Jon asked, though something deep in his mind already knew the answer.
The air in the center of his chamber began to shimmer, like heat rising from sun-warmed stone. Slowly, a figure materialized—translucent and glowing with soft blue light, but more solid-looking than the other Avatars had appeared.
A man standing in front of him, with a completely bald head marked by intricate arrow tattoos that glowed with the same ethereal light as the rest of him. He wore orange and yellow robes, and his staff leaned casually against his shoulder. But it was his expression that set him apart from the others—where Roku carried the weight of responsibility, Kyoshi the burden of harsh decisions, and Kuruk the scars of loss, this face held something Jon had rarely seen in the faces of these blue people: joy.
"Aang," Jon breathed, the name coming to his lips without conscious thought.
The Avatar smiled, and the gesture transformed his entire face. "Hello, Jon. I've been looking forward to meeting you properly."
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