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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), Chapter 9 (Kuruk Hates Being Second), and Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water) are already available for Patrons.
The spirit realm shimmered like a dream caught between dusk and dawn. A vast expanse of mist swirled around a grove of ghostly trees. The past Avatars—Aang, Roku, Kyoshi, Yangchen, and Kuruk—formed a loose circle around a tree.
Through the pool, they watched Jon Snow sitting alone in the Training Yard, his small frame dwarfed by the ancient tree. Snow dusted his dark hair as he stared at his hands, brows furrowed, willing the air to move as it had with Robb days before. A faint breeze stirred, rustling the leaves, but it faltered, and he slumped, kicking at the snow in frustration.
Kyoshi broke the silence first, her voice a guttural growl that cut through the ethereal stillness like a blade. "This is unbearable." She towered over the others, fan snapping open in her hand with a sharp click. The green shimmer of her earthbending aura pulsed irritably. "We're stuck here, whispering through cracks, while he flails around like a blind badgermole. Yangchen got through to him once—'air had awakened first,' big deal! He doesn't even know what it means. No masters, no benders, no spirits—nothing! Even if we scream 'You're the Avatar,' he'll never bend a pebble, let alone save this place."
Aang, perched cross-legged on a cushion of swirling air, tilted his head with a grin. "Oh, come on, Kyoshi, give him a break! He's only ten. And he's already airbending! Did you see him send Robb flying? Twirled him right through the air like a leaf! Sure, he doesn't get it yet, but he's got spirit—literally. He'll figure it out. I mean, I didn't have masters right away either, and I turned out fine." He twirled a finger, sending a tiny gust spiraling toward Kyoshi, who swatted it away with a glare.
"Fine?" Kyoshi snorted, her painted face twisting into a scowl. "You ran off and got frozen for a century, leaving the Fire Nation to torch the world. Spare me the optimism, kid." Her fan snapped shut, the sound echoing like a thunderclap.
Roku stepped forward. "Enough, both of you. This isn't about what we did—it's about Jon. This world is different, yes—no bending nations, no spirit portals—but the Avatar spirit adapts. It always has. Look at him." He gestured to the pool, where Jon traced a finger through the snow, lost in thought. "His powers are waking on their own. Air first, now hints of fire. He's young, unguided, but the spark's there. Our connection's weak, but it'll grow when he's ready to listen."
Kyoshi rolled her eyes, pacing around the weirwood, her heavy boots leaving no mark on the misty ground. "Ready? At this rate, he'll be an old man before he hears us properly. I've faced armies, leveled mountains—waiting around for a kid to stumble into his destiny isn't my style. We're crippled here, Roku. Even if he does hear us, how's he supposed to learn? Wave his hands at snow and hope for the best?"
Yangchen chimed in. "Kyoshi's got a point about the pace, but I'm with Aang—Jon's got potential. Air's awake, fire's flickering—did you see that candle relight itself in the library? That's something. I understand the situation isn't exactly favorable, but I'm sure he will get the hang of it sooner or later, and then he can finally start doing his job as the Avatar."
Aang chuckled. "Do his job as the Avatar? He's a kid, Yangchen! Let him have a little fun first. Besides, he's curious—asking that maester about people controlling elements? He's already chasing the truth. Give him time, and he'll be zooming around on an air scooter, saving the day. I bet he'd love that."
Kuruk, who'd been silent until now, stirred from the edge of the circle. "You're all dancing around the real problem." He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the pool, though his gaze seemed to pierce beyond it. "That maester mentioned White Walkers, that old woman that was called Old Nan talked about them. Dead things walking, ice that kills. In my time, I hunted dark spirits—I don't know what is in this world, but I wouldn't be surprised if the white walkers really exist."
Roku stroked his beard. "If they're spirits—or something like them—they might feel the Avatar's presence. The Avatar draws balance and trouble. But we can't know yet. Our focus should be guiding Jon, not chasing shadows we can't see."
Aang flipped upright, landing lightly on his feet, his grin softening into something thoughtful. "Kuruk's got a point—something feels off about this place. But I say we help Jon first. He's close to something—I can feel it. That breeze he made? It's a start. Maybe next time, we push a little harder and get through to him. He's got a good heart; he'll listen when he's ready."
"There's something else we need to talk about," Kyoshi suddenly said after a moment of silence. "It's not just his bending—or lack of it. It's how he's being raised. That's what's concerning."
Aang blinked, tilting his head like a curious owl. "What's wrong with it? He's got a dad—well, an uncle pretending to be a dad—in a big castle with wolves and everything! Sounds pretty cozy to me."
Kyoshi's eyes narrowed; she knew from personal experience just how important a good childhood was; a bad one was like a rotten tree just waiting to crash down. "Cozy? He's a bastard, Aang—at least, that's what they call him. Ned Stark's his uncle or whatever, sure, but the man's got his own kids to fuss over. You see how he lights up for Robb, that redheaded girl, the new baby? Jon's an afterthought. And that wife of his—Lady Stark? She looks at him like he's a stain on her fancy dress. Cold as the snow out there."
Aang frowned, landing softly on the ground. "But he's got Robb! They're buddies—sparring, laughing. That's something, right?"
Kyoshi's lip curled. "Robb's a start, sure. And that five-year-old sister of his—Arya?—she toddles after him sometimes. Cute, but useless for guidance. Then there's the old Maester—Luwin Whatever—older than Roku, creaking like a rusty gate. Those are his 'true friends.' A brother, a toddler, and a relic. That's it." She said sharply. "He's surrounded, but he's alone."
Yangchen raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "What are you getting at, Kyoshi? Spit it out."
"He needs more—love, direction, a real push. Ned's honor keeps him alive, but it's not enough. Lady Stark's ice-wall attitude? That'll fester. If he grows up feeling like a shadow, unwanted, what kind of Avatar will he be? One who doesn't care about balance—or worse, one who turns it upside down. I've seen warriors break under less."
The group fell silent, the weight of her words settling like frost. Aang rubbed the back of his head, his optimism dimming for a moment. "You think he'd... give up on balance? Jon doesn't seem like that."
"Seems don't matter," Kyoshi shot back. "He's a kid—malleable. If this 'bastard' label digs too deep, he might not want to save anyone if he's left drifting without a tether. I had my family, but then everything went to hell after Jianzhu...." She stopped talking, that monster was still a fresh wound in her heart. "I'm trying to say that small comments towards him will pile up, Bastard here, bastard there, those comments will fester like a wound, and one day he might explode in the worst possible time."
Roku stroked his beard again, his calm unshaken. "You raise a fair point, Kyoshi. His upbringing shapes his spirit as much as his bending does. But Eddard Stark seems like a man of duty—he protects Jon, even if imperfectly. And the boy's heart is strong—I see it in his quiet resolve, his curiosity. He seeks answers, even now."
Yangchen nodded slowly. "Maybe Kyoshi's onto something, though. He's got potential, but potential's fragile. If he's going to be this world's Avatar, he needs more than accidental gusts and a cold castle. He needs to feel like he belongs somewhere—or he'll never step up."
Kuruk straightened, his gaze still fixed on some unseen horizon. "Belonging's good, but purpose might come from those White Walkers—if they're real. Dark spirits don't care about love—they just strike. I'd know." He cracked his knuckles, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Maybe Jon needs a fight to wake him up."
Aang perked up, bouncing back. "Or a friend! Robb's great, but—what if someone else sees what's special about him? Like those Manderly girls. Kids can surprise you!"
Kyoshi rolled her eyes. "Optimist to the end, huh? Fine—let's hope a fish-girl with green hair saves the day."
.
.
The great hall of Winterfell bustled with activity as servants scurried about, hanging fresh banners, polishing ancient sconces, and scrubbing the stone floors until they gleamed. House Manderly's impending visit had transformed the typically efficient castle into a whirlwind of preparation.
Jon Snow stood in the midst of this organized chaos, a scroll clutched in his small hands, trying his best to stay out of everyone's way while still completing the task Maester Luwin had assigned him. The old maester had asked him to deliver inventory lists to key members of the household staff—the kitchens, the stables, the armory, and the steward's quarters. It was an important job, Jon knew, but not one that required him to stand at his father's side or participate in any formal capacity.
"Move aside, boy!" barked a harried cook's assistant, nearly colliding with Jon as she rushed past with a massive platter of salted cod. "These need to be soaked before tomorrow's feast!"
Jon pressed himself against the wall, watching as three more kitchen staff followed in her wake, each carrying similar burdens. The smell of the fish was pungent even from a distance, and Jon wrinkled his nose.
"Not to your liking, young lord?" came an amused voice.
Jon turned to find Maester Luwin approaching, his chain of office clinking softly with each step.
"It's not that," Jon replied, straightening his posture. "I was just surprised they're preparing so much food already. The Manderlys won't arrive until tomorrow."
"Ah, but preparation is key to a successful welcome," Luwin said wisely. "Especially when hosting the Manderlys, who are famous for their appetites. Lord Wyman alone can consume more at a single sitting than you and your brother manage in a day."
Jon's eyes widened. "Is he really so fat he can't sit a horse? Thats what Robb said."
The maester's lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "Lord Wyman is... substantial in size, yes. But I wouldn't recommend using such terms within his hearing. The Lord of White Harbor may be rotund, but his mind is as sharp as Valyrian steel, and his loyalty to House Stark is absolute."
Jon nodded. "The book said his family came from the Reach originally."
"Indeed they did," Luwin confirmed, pleased by Jon's retention of his reading. "When they lost their lands there, they fled north and were granted White Harbor by the Starks in exchange for their fealty. They've been loyal bannermen ever since—and the North has benefited greatly from their trade connections and wealth."
A crash from the kitchens interrupted their conversation, followed by a stream of colorful cursing that made Jon's ears burn. Luwin sighed.
"I'd best see what disaster has befallen us now. Have you delivered all your scrolls?"
Jon shuffled the remaining parchments in his hands. "Not yet. I still need to take this one to the stables and this one to the steward."
"Best get on with it, then," the maester advised, patting Jon's shoulder before hurrying toward the kitchens.
Jon made his way through the courtyard, which was nearly as busy as the great hall. Stableboys rushed to and fro, preparing extra stalls for the Manderly horses. Armorers hammered out dents in ceremonial shields that would hang during the welcoming feast. Even Old Nan had been pressed into service, sitting in a patch of weak winter sunlight as her gnarled fingers worked a needle through a banner that had suffered moth damage during storage.
As Jon approached the stables, he spotted Robb and Ser Rodrik deep in conversation outside the armory. Curiosity getting the better of him, Jon changed course to join them.
"—need to look my best," Robb was saying earnestly. "Father says the Manderlys have granddaughters my age."
Ser Rodrik tugged at his magnificent white whiskers. "Aye, they do. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla, if I recall correctly. But you're a bit young to be concerning yourself with impressing young ladies, Lord Robb."
Jon arrived just in time to see his brother's face flush. "I didn't mean it like that! I just meant I need to show them that Winterfell has the best fighters in the North."
"Ah, now that's a worthy goal," Ser Rodrik nodded approvingly. "Though I'm not sure your mother would approve of you knocking about a highborn lady with a practice sword."
Robb laughed, then noticed Jon hovering at the edge of their conversation. "Jon! There you are. Ser Rodrik says we can have a special training session tomorrow to show the Manderly girls how we fight in Winterfell."
Jon frowned slightly. "I thought I wasn't supposed to participate in the formal welcome."
"This isn't formal," Robb insisted, his blue eyes bright with excitement. "Just regular training, but with an audience. Besides, you're better with a sword than I am—I need you there."
Pride warmed Jon's chest at his brother's compliment, but uncertainty quickly followed. "Lady Stark won't like it."
"Lady Stark has more pressing concerns than your training schedule," Ser Rodrik interjected gruffly. "The yard is my domain, and I say both Stark boys will show what they've learned."
Jon bit his lip to keep from correcting the old knight's reference to him as a "Stark boy." Instead, he nodded his thanks.
"I need to deliver these first," he said, holding up the remaining scrolls. "But I'll be ready tomorrow."
As Jon turned to continue his task, Robb called after him: "Wear your good tunic! The dark grey one with the wolf embroidery that father had made for your name day!"
Jon felt his cheeks warm at his brother's enthusiasm but continued on his way to the stables. The master of horse, a grizzled man named Hullen who had served House Stark since before Jon was born, accepted the inventory scroll with a grunt of acknowledgment.
"Mermen coming to the wolf's den," the man muttered as he unrolled the parchment. "Always brings trouble, mixing salt water with fresh."
"Trouble, sir?" Jon asked, curious at this assessment.
Hullen glanced down as if surprised to find Jon still standing there. "No, not trouble exactly. Just different ways, boy. The Manderlys follow the Seven, keep different customs. Brings a bit of... complication." He squinted at the inventory. "Seven hells, they're bringing forty horses? Where am I supposed to put forty more bloody horses?"
Jon slipped away quietly as Hullen launched into creative suggestions for where Maester Luwin could store his inventory requests. His final delivery took him to the steward's quarters, where he found not only the steward but Lady Stark herself, bent over a large ledger.
Jon froze in the doorway, unsure whether to enter or retreat. Lady Catelyn's dislike of him was a constant undercurrent in life at Winterfell—never openly hostile, but as palpable as the chill that seeped through the castle walls in winter.
The steward noticed him first. "What is it, Snow?"
Lady Catelyn looked up, her Tully-blue eyes fixing on Jon with that familiar coolness. Jon swallowed the knot in his throat and stepped forward, holding out the scroll.
"Maester Luwin sent me with the guest chamber assignments," he explained, his voice carefully neutral.
The steward reached for the scroll, but Lady Stark intercepted it. "Thank you, Jon. I was just discussing this matter with Poole."
Jon bowed slightly, preparing to retreat, but Lady Stark wasn't finished.
"Since you're here, I should inform you of the arrangements for tomorrow's welcome." Her tone was perfectly proper. "You will not be expected to stand in the receiving line with the family. However, your father wishes you to be present in the courtyard. You'll stand with Maester Luwin and the senior household staff."
Jon nodded, having expected as much. It was a compromise—acknowledging him as part of the household while not forcing Lady Stark to present him alongside her trueborn children.
"Thank you, my lady," he replied formally.
Lady Catelyn studied him for a moment longer than necessary, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "That tunic you're wearing is too small for you. See Septa Mordane about getting a better one for tomorrow. You should represent the household properly."
Jon blinked in surprise at what was, for Lady Stark, an almost maternal concern. "Yes, my lady."
She had already returned her attention to the ledger, effectively dismissing him. Jon backed out of the room, oddly unsettled by the interaction.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Jon, having completed his assigned tasks, found himself pressed into service wherever an extra pair of hands was needed—helping the cooks carry supplies, assisting the grooms with grooming the Stark horses to glossy perfection, and even joining Robb in practicing their formal bows under the critical eye of Septa Mordane.
"No, no, Snow! Your left foot should be behind your right, not alongside it," the septa corrected for the third time, her perpetual frown deepening. "How do you expect to show proper respect to Lord Manderly if you cannot even bow correctly?"
"I doubt Lord Manderly will care much about the bow of a bastard, Septa," Jon muttered, though he adjusted his stance as instructed.
"Bastard or not, you are still Lord Stark's blood, and you will not embarrass this house," the septa declared firmly. "Again, both of you."
As Jon and Robb practiced their bows, Sansa watched from her seat by the window, her small hands working delicate stitches into a handkerchief embroidered with the merman of House Manderly—a welcome gift for one of the Manderly girls.
"Will they really have green hair, Septa?" the seven-year-old asked, her voice filled with wonder.
"I've heard that the younger one does," Septa Mordane replied, momentarily distracted from her criticism of Jon's posture. "Though why Lady Wylla chooses to dye her hair such an unseemly color, I cannot fathom."
"I think it sounds wonderful," Sansa sighed dreamily. "Like a mermaid from Old Nan's stories."
"It sounds ridiculous," Robb countered. "Who wants green hair?"
"I do!" piped up a small voice from the doorway. Five-year-old Arya toddled into the room, her nurse chasing behind her. "Green hair! Green hair!" she chanted, clapping her hands.
"You see what you've started?" Septa Mordane scolded Sansa, who looked mortified at the thought of her little sister demanding green hair. "Lady Arya, come here at once and sit quietly if you wish to stay."
Predictably, Arya did exactly the opposite, launching herself at Jon with a squeal of delight. "Jon! Up!"
Jon caught her automatically, swinging her into his arms as the nurse apologized profusely for the interruption.
"It's alright," Jon assured the flustered woman. "I can watch her for a bit."
"Snow, we haven't finished practicing," the septa protested.
"I think Jon's bow is fine," Robb interjected, coming to his brother's defense. "Besides, Arya listens to him better than anyone else."
It was true. The willful toddler, who frequently escaped her caretakers and disrupted lessons, would sit contentedly for hours if Jon was the one telling her stories or showing her the horses in the stable.
"Very well," the septa relented with a sniff. "But see that she doesn't get into mischief. The last thing we need is Lady Arya running amok when the Manderlys arrive."
Jon carried Arya to the window seat, settling her on his knee. "Would you like to hear about the mermen coming to visit us tomorrow?" he asked softly.
Arya nodded eagerly.
"Well, they come from a city made of white stone, right by the sea," Jon began, his voice dropping into the storytelling cadence he reserved for Arya. "And they sail in ships with sails green as summer grass..."
.
.
A light snow dusted Winterfell's courtyard, speckling the ancient grey stones with white. From his position near the stables, Jon Snow watched with fascination as the Manderly procession passed beneath the portcullis and filled the yard with color, and noise.
First came the knights—a dozen men on sturdy northern steeds, their armor gleaming despite the long journey, green cloaks rippling like sea waves behind them. Each man bore the merman sigil of House Manderly emblazoned on his shield: a green-haired merman with a trident against a blue-green field. Jon had never seen so many knights in one place.
Behind the knights rode two large men who could only be Lord Wyman's sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel. Both had inherited their father's girth, though to a lesser degree. Their beards were neatly trimmed and adorned with small golden tridents.
Then came Lord Wyman Manderly himself, and Jon couldn't help but gape. The Lord of White Harbor was indeed as enormous as the stories claimed—so heavy that he rode not on a horse but in a specially built litter carried by eight straining men.
As the litter bearers carefully lowered their burden to the ground, Jon glimpsed Lord Wyman's face—round and flushed from the cold, but surprisingly jolly, with clever blue eyes that missed nothing as they surveyed Winterfell's courtyard. Despite his massive size, there was a dignity to the man, accentuated by his rich clothing of blue-green velvet trimmed with white fur and silver thread.
"Seven hells, he really is too fat to sit a horse," whispered Robb, who had appeared at Jon's side.
Jon elbowed his half-brother in the ribs. "Shhh! He'll hear you."
"No, he won't," Robb countered, though he lowered his voice. "Look, there they are—the granddaughters."
Jon's attention shifted to two girls dismounting from ponies near the rear of the procession. Both were bundled in blue-green cloaks lined with silver fox fur, their hair partially visible beneath fur-trimmed hoods—one auburn, the other, surprisingly, a pale green.
"She does have green hair! Why do you think she has green hair?" Jon whispered.
"How should I know?" Robb shrugged. "Maybe it's a Manderly custom. Come on, let's go closer."
Before Jon could protest, Robb grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, weaving through the crowd of stable boys, servants, and guards who filled the courtyard.
"Robb, wait," Jon hissed, suddenly aware of Lady Catelyn's gaze falling upon them from where she stood beside Lord Stark. "I shouldn't—"
"Don't be stupid," Robb interrupted, still pulling him along. "Father said we both had to welcome them properly, remember?"
Jon did remember, but he also knew that formal welcomes had protocols, and bastards weren't typically included in the receiving line. Still, he allowed Robb to drag him forward until they stood at the edge of the clearing that had formed around the Stark family.
Lord Eddard Stark stood tall and solemn in the center, his face set in its usual stern lines, though a small smile played at the corners of his mouth as Lord Wyman approached. Lady Catelyn stood beside him, elegant in a grey dress embroidered with silver direwolves, her auburn hair arranged in an intricate northern style. Little Sansa, at seven, was a miniature version of her mother, practically vibrating with excitement as she curtsied perfectly.
"Lord Stark!" boomed Wyman Manderly, his voice as substantial as his frame. "By the old gods and the new, it's good to see Winterfell again!" He extended a pudgy hand adorned with golden rings, which Lord Stark clasped firmly.
"Lord Manderly," Ned replied warmly. "White Harbor does us honor with this visit. You and your family are most welcome."
The formal greetings continued, each Manderly being introduced to each Stark in turn. Jon hung back, watching as Sansa blushed prettily when Ser Wylis complimented her hair, and as Arya reached out to touch the green locks of the younger Manderly girl, who didn't seem to mind at all.
"That's Wylla," Robb whispered, nodding toward the green-haired girl.
Jon studied the girls with interest. Wynafryd was tall for her age, with a serious face and elegant bearing that reminded him somewhat of Sansa, though her auburn hair was several shades darker. Wylla's green hair framed a round face dominated by curious eyes and a stubborn chin. While her sister perfectly mimicked the adults' formal manners, Wylla seemed to be fighting the urge to run off and explore, her gaze darting from the towers of Winterfell to the godswood to the training yard.
Then, suddenly, those curious eyes locked with Jon's purple ones.
Jon froze. He wasn't used to being noticed, especially not by highborn visitors. For a moment, neither moved. Then, to Jon's surprise, Wylla smiled at him—a broad, gap-toothed grin that transformed her face from merely pretty to genuinely charming.
Before Jon could decide whether to smile back, Lord Stark's voice broke the moment.
"And these are my sons," Ned said, gesturing to where Robb stood. "Robb, come forward and greet Lord Manderly."
Robb stepped forward confidently, bowing with perfect form. "Welcome to Winterfell, my lord."
"Ho!" Lord Wyman chuckled, his multiple chins quivering. "The young wolf himself! Strong lad, just like your father at your age." He turned to look at Jon, who was trying his best to blend into the background. "And this one?"
A brief silence fell. Jon felt rather than saw Lady Catelyn stiffen.
"My son, Jon Snow," Lord Stark said simply, his voice neither apologetic nor defensive.
Jon stepped forward, acutely aware of every eye upon him. He bowed precisely as Ser Rodrik had taught him, keeping his face carefully neutral. "My lord. Welcome to Winterfell."
To Jon's surprise, Lord Wyman showed no sign of the disdain or discomfort that visitors usually displayed upon learning of Jon's bastard status. Instead, the massive lord studied him with those shrewd blue eyes.
"Unusual eyes you have there, young man," Lord Wyman observed. "Reminds me of the stories of old Valyria."
Jon didn't know how to respond to that, but thankfully Lord Stark intervened.
"Come, my lord. You must be weary from your journey. We've prepared chambers for you and your family, and there will be a feast tonight to welcome you properly."
As the formal party moved toward the Great Keep, Robb grabbed Jon's arm again. "See? That wasn't so bad. And Wylla smiled at you!"
Jon shrugged, trying to appear indifferent though he'd been surprised by the girl's friendliness. "She was probably just being polite."
"No, she wasn't," Robb insisted. "Wynafryd was being polite. Wylla looked like she actually wanted to talk to you." He grinned mischievously. "Maybe she likes purple eyes."
"Shut up," Jon muttered, shoving Robb good-naturedly. "Come on, we should get ready for the feast."
The Great Hall of Winterfell glowed with warmth and light. Extra torches had been mounted in the wall sconces, and dozens of candles illuminated the long tables where the household of Winterfell and their guests from White Harbor dined together. The air was heavy with the scents of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet pastries imported specially from White Harbor for the occasion.
Jon sat at his usual place, far down the table from the high seats where Lord Stark entertained Lord Manderly. From this distance, he could observe without being observed, a skill he'd perfected over years of feasts where he was present but not quite part of the celebration.
"More sweet drink, Jon?" asked a serving girl, pausing beside him with a pitcher.
Jon shook his head. "No, thank you. I've had enough."
In truth, he'd barely touched his cup. The last thing he wanted was to give Lady Catelyn any reason to fault his behavior in front of important guests.
As the meal progressed, Jon found his attention repeatedly drawn to the Manderly granddaughters. Wynafryd conducted herself with perfect decorum, speaking softly and laughing politely at the jests of those around her. Wylla, however, seemed to have little interest in traditional behavior. She questioned the servants about the preparation of each dish, swapped plates with her grandfather to try different foods, and at one point was gently scolded by her father for attempting to feed scraps to one of Winterfell's hounds beneath the table. Jon's attention then turned to Wynafryd, who was talking with Robb.
Jon was trying to hear what Lady Wynafryd was saying that he didn't notice Wylla slip away from her seat until she suddenly appeared on the bench beside him, her green hair slightly disheveled and her eyes bright with curiosity.
"Why are you sitting all the way down here?" she asked without preamble, her voice piping and clear.
Jon blinked in surprise. "I... this is where I usually sit."
Wylla frowned, looking up at the high table and then back at Jon. "But you're Lord Stark's son, aren't you? Shouldn't you be up there with your brother?"
Jon felt heat rise to his cheeks. It felt like she was mocking him; after all, she was the same age as him; he doubted that she did not know what a bastard was at this point. "I'm Lord Stark's natural son," he explained awkwardly. "His bastard."
"Oh." Wylla considered this information, her head tilted to one side. "We don't have many bastards in White Harbor. Or at least, nobody talks about them." She shrugged. "It seems silly to make you sit way down here just because your parents weren't married."
Jon had never heard anyone dismiss his bastard status so casually. He didn't know whether to be offended or grateful for Wylla's bluntness.
"Why are you so quiet?" she continued, plucking a piece of bread from his trencher and popping it into her mouth. "Your brother talks all the time. He's been telling my sister about hunting and riding and training to be a knight. Don't you do those things too?"
"I'm not training to be a knight," Jon mumbled, uncomfortable with her direct questions. "Northmen don't typically become knights. It's a southern tradition, with the Seven and all."
"We're northmen, and we have knights," Wylla countered. "My father and uncle are both knights. Grandfather says you can follow the old gods and still be a knight. He says what matters is being honorable and brave."
Before he could respond, a sudden, powerful gust of wind rattled the shutters of the Great Hall, the wooden panels banging so loudly that conversations halted mid-sentence as heads turned toward the windows.
"Gods, that wind came from nowhere," muttered a nearby guard, making the sign of the seven-pointed star over his chest.
"Winter is coming," quipped another, drawing chuckles from those nearby.
But Jon wasn't laughing. He wondered what had caused this.
"Are you alright?" Wylla asked, peering at him with genuine concern. "You've gone all pale."
"I'm fine," Jon insisted, though his voice sounded distant to his own ears. He tucked his hands beneath the table. "I just... I need some air."
"But there's plenty of air in here," Wylla pointed out reasonably. "Too much, actually, with that wind."
Robb, who had noticed the commotion, called down from his seat near the high table. "Was that you making the wind blow, Jon?" he laughed. "Like in the training yard?"
Several nearby diners glanced curiously at Jon, who felt his face flush with embarrassment.
"I should go," he murmured to Wylla, rising from the bench. "I'm not feeling well. Please excuse me."
Without waiting for her response, Jon made his way toward the doors of the Great Hall, fighting the urge to run. Behind him, he could hear Robb explaining to someone, "Jon threw me three feet in the air last week! It was amazing!"
Jon wanted to go back to his chamber, but there were too many servants everywhere, and the training yard was full of people talking and drinking, there was only one place left for him to go, a place he rarely went. The God's Wood of Winterfell.
Jon reached the place, feeling a warm feeling creeping up to his cheek. He didn't know what happened to him, but now that he was alone, he felt embarrassed with himself; he should not have run like that, especially since Lady Wylla had come to him to talk, and what did he do...he ran away like a child.
"I should apologise to her." Jon mumbled under his breath, wondering if he should try to return back to the feast and apologize or talk with her tomorrow. Would she even want to talk with him? He was a bastard after all.
"You are more than a bastard, Jon."
For a moment, Jon thought this was just another voice, like the other two times. He had looked around but hadn't seen anyone, but this time, it felt closer. Jon turned his head towards the Weirwood Tree, and standing there was a figure. It was transparent like a ghost, but it was glittering blue. It looked like a woman—a Woman wearing paint on her face.
"Who are..." Jon's words stuck to his throat, he knew he had never seen her before, yet, she seemed familiar to him. "...Kyoshi!"
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