Hello, PerfectPage. I'm happy to publish the first Chapter of Avatar of the Seven Kingdoms
If you want to Read 7 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'PerfectPage Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK
The following 7 chapters are already available to Patrons.
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), Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water), and Chapter 11 (What is An Avatar) are already available for Patrons.
Jon stared at the blue, translucent figure standing before the heart tree. The woman was tall—impossibly tall—even taller than his father. Her face was painted white with red markings, and she wore strange, ornate armor, unlike anything Jon had ever seen. Most striking were her eyes—penetrating and ancient as if they had witnessed centuries pass.
"You know my name," she stated rather than asked, her voice resonating with quiet authority. "Interesting."
Jon took an instinctive step backward. "Are you... a ghost?" His hand moved to the dagger at his belt, though he doubted steel would do much against an apparition.
"I am no ghost, Jon Snow." Kyoshi remained motionless, her hands folded before her. "I am a part of you that has always been there, sleeping until now."
"That makes no sense," Jon replied, his voice steadier than he expected. "I've never seen you before."
A subtle smile crossed Kyoshi's painted face. "And yet you knew my name. Just as you knew how to call the wind in the Great Hall, though no one taught you."
Jon's eyes widened. "That was... I did that?"
"Yes." Kyoshi nodded once. "The wind responds to your emotions, particularly strong ones. Fear, anger, confusion—these can trigger your abilities when you lack control."
Jon shook his head, trying to make sense of her words. "What abilities? Who are you really?"
Kyoshi seemed to consider her answer carefully. "I am someone who once wielded the same power you now possess. I am here to help you understand it, control it."
"Why me?" Jon asked, the question barely above a whisper.
"That is a conversation for another time," Kyoshi replied firmly. "For now, what matters is teaching you control before your abilities reveal themselves again, perhaps in ways more dangerous than a gust of wind."
Jon thought of the feast, of Robb's comment about being thrown in the training yard. Had he really done that? The possibility both terrified and fascinated him.
"Can you teach me not to do it at all?" he asked cautiously. "To make it stop?"
Kyoshi's expression hardened. "No. This power is part of you—denying it would be like trying not to breathe. I can, however, teach you to master it rather than be mastered by it."
Jon approached slowly, his curiosity overcoming his fear. Kyoshi's blue figure remained still, watching him with those ancient eyes.
"What is this power called?" he asked.
"Bending," Kyoshi answered. "The element you've accessed is air. There are others, but for now, we focus on the one that has awakened in you."
"Bending," Jon repeated, testing the word. "Airbending."
Kyoshi nodded approvingly. "The element of freedom, of movement and evasion rather than confrontation. It suits your current path."
Jon glanced around the godswood, half-expecting others to appear from behind the ancient trees. "Are there others like me? In Winterfell? In the North?"
"No," Kyoshi said simply. "You are unique in this world."
The weight of her words settled on Jon's shoulders. Unique. Different. Hadn't he always felt that way? The bastard of Winterfell, with eyes unlike any Stark, always apart even when included.
"Show me," he said suddenly, his voice stronger. "Show me what airbending is supposed to look like when it's controlled."
Kyoshi raised an eyebrow at his demand but seemed pleased by his directness, she then touched his forehead, and everything went white.
Jon opened his eyes and noticed that he was somewhere else entirely; they were in a forest somewhere, but there was a thick fog everywhere around him. "How did I get here?" Jon wondered out loud.
"You are in the Spirit World."
Jon whirled around and saw Kyoshi standing near him. "Spirit World?" Jon asked, not understanding where he was. He had read a lot of books, and he was sure he had never heard of this place.
"I will explain later, Jon, but I brought you because you wanted to see Airbending."
She stepped away and moved to a clearing in the forest.
"Watch," she commanded.
She moved her hands in a circular pattern, and to Jon's amazement, leaves from the forest floor rose in a spiraling column, dancing in the air as if alive. With another motion, she created a small whirlwind that rustled the branches of nearby trees without breaking them.
"Airbending is the element of harmony," she explained as the leaves settled gently back to the ground. "It does not destroy; it redirects. It does not oppose; it yields and then returns. Like the air itself, it is all around us, invisible until shaped by will."
Jon watched, mesmerized. "How do I begin?"
"With breath," Kyoshi answered, her tone softening slightly. "All bending begins with proper breathing." She demonstrated a deep breathing technique, her chest expanding fully before releasing the air slowly.
Jon mimicked her, feeling somewhat foolish but determined.
"Good," Kyoshi nodded. "The first step in controlling airbending is controlling yourself. Your emotions, your breath, your stance—all must be in harmony."
She guided him through several breathing exercises, correcting his posture with verbal instructions rather than physical contact—reminding Jon of her incorporeal nature.
"When you feel yourself losing control, return to your breath," she instructed. Center yourself. The air responds to turmoil with turmoil and peace with peace."
Jon practiced the breathing technique again, feeling a subtle shift in his awareness as he focused.
"Why haven't I seen you before." he asked suddenly.
Kyoshi's expression remained unreadable. "When you are ready to learn, a teacher appears. I am that teacher, Jon Snow."
"But who are you really?" Jon persisted. "Where do you come from? Why do I know your name?"
Kyoshi raised a hand, silencing his questions. "In time, I will answer what I can. For now, accept that I am here to help, nothing more."
Jon frowned but nodded reluctantly. "Will I see you again?"
"When you need guidance, I will appear," she replied. "But our time tonight grows short. The living world pulls at you, and maintaining this connection requires energy from us both."
Indeed, Jon noticed that Kyoshi's blue form had become slightly less distinct, her edges blurring.
"Before I go, I will teach you a simple form," she said, taking a stance with her feet shoulder-width apart. "This is the foundation of airbending movement."
She demonstrated a series of flowing motions, arms moving in circular patterns while her stance shifted with subtle weight transfers. Jon followed as best he could, feeling awkward.
"Practice these movements daily," Kyoshi instructed. "Not to bend air—that will come later—but to teach your body the language of the element. The body must understand before the element will respond."
Jon repeated the form several times under Kyoshi's watchful eye, receiving occasional corrections.
"You learn quickly," she observed. "That is good."
"Will this keep me from... from making accidents happen?" Jon asked, thinking of the feast.
"With practice, yes," Kyoshi nodded. "Unconscious bending happens when emotion overwhelms control. These exercises will strengthen your control."
Jon moved through the form once more, concentrating on each position. "I'll practice," he promised.
"I know you will," Kyoshi said, her form growing fainter. You have the spirit of persistence, Jon Snow. You will need it." She then approached him and touched his forehead. Everything went dark.
Jon opened his eyes and saw himself lying on the ground, the snow touching his cheek. For a moment, he thought he had imagined the whole thing, but when he looked up, he saw Kyoshi standing there still. As if she could read his thoughts, she said. "It wasn't a dream." she said with a small smile, her form starting to fade.
"Wait! There's so much more I need to know!"
Kyoshi's voice came as if from a great distance. "Knowledge comes to those patient enough to receive it properly. Master what I have taught you today. We will speak again."
"When?" Jon called, but the blue figure had vanished completely, leaving him alone beneath the heart tree.
The godswood fell silent save for the rustling of leaves in the night breeze. Jon stood motionless, trying to process everything he'd learned. Part of him still wondered if he'd imagined the entire encounter—a dream or hallucination brought on by stress and the strange events at the feast.
But when he moved his arms in the pattern Kyoshi had taught him, he felt something respond—not visibly, not yet, but a whisper of connection to the air around him.
"Airbending," he whispered to himself, testing the word again.
He practiced the form once more in the moonlight, movements becoming more fluid with each repetition.
"Jon?" A voice called from the edge of the godswood. "Are you hiding?"
Jon scrambled to his feet, brushing leaves from his clothes. "I'm not hiding," he called back, recognizing Wylla Manderly's distinct voice. Her green-haired head appeared between two sentinel trees.
"Everyone's looking for you," she said, approaching him. "Lady Stark seems rather pleased you're missing, but your brother Robb is worried."
Jon winced. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."
"What happened at dinner?" Wylla asked, stopping a few feet away. "One moment we were talking, and in the next a gust of wind came out of nowhere." She tilted her head, studying him with curiosity rather than judgment. "My grandfather says the North holds old magic. Was that you?"
Jon stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." Wylla smiled. "But I won't tell anyone."
"There's nothing to tell," Jon insisted.
Wylla shrugged. "If you say so. Either way, you should come back before they send out search parties. Or don't, and we can explore instead. I've never seen a godswood like this."
Jon hesitated. The prospect of returning to the hall, facing Lady Stark's cold stare and the curious glances of their guests, made his stomach twist. But staying here with this strange, green-haired girl who spoke to him as if he mattered...
"What would we explore?" he asked.
Wylla's smile widened. "Everything."
.
.
Dawn broke over Winterfell, painting the ancient stones gold. Jon had been awake for hours, sitting cross-legged on his bed as Kyoshi had instructed, trying to "connect with his breath." Whatever that meant.
A sharp knock at his door broke his concentration.
"Snow!" Theon Greyjoy's voice called. "Ser Rodrik wants us in the yard. The Manderly boys are joining training today."
Jon sighed, stretching his stiff legs. Another day of Theon's barbs and Robb's well-meaning but uncomfortable attempts to include him. At least the training would be a distraction from his failed meditation attempts.
"Coming," he called, reaching for his practice clothes.
In the yard, Ser Rodrik stood with Robb and three boys wearing the merman sigil of House Manderly. Two were clearly cousins of Wylla—they had the same round Manderly features, though their hair was traditionally colored. The third was taller, perhaps a year or two older, with a serious expression.
"There you are, Snow," Ser Rodrik grunted. "We'll be practicing sword forms today with our guests. Pair up—Robb with Wendel, Theon with Marlon, and Jon with Wylis."
The taller boy, Wylis, gave Jon a polite nod as they moved to an open space in the yard. Jon returned the gesture, grateful the boy didn't immediately wrinkle his nose at being paired with Lord Stark's bastard.
"I've heard you're quick," Wylis said as they took up training swords.
Jon shrugged. "Quick enough."
"We'll see," Wylis smiled, taking a ready stance. "In White Harbor, we train with sailors from all over the world. They have... unusual techniques."
Jon raised an eyebrow but said nothing, settling into his own stance. Ser Rodrik called for them to begin, and Wylis launched forward with surprising speed for his size. Jon parried the first strike, feeling the impact reverberate up his arm.
Wylis wasn't just strong; he moved with speed. Jon found himself giving ground, defending against a flurry of strikes that seemed to draw from unfamiliar patterns. A crowd began to gather—servants pausing in their morning duties, guards off their night shift, and several Manderly retainers eager to watch their young lords train.
Jon saw an opening and darted left, his smaller size allowing him to slip past Wylis's guard. The older boy pivoted, but not before Jon landed a light tap on his side.
"Point to Snow," Ser Rodrik called.
Wylis nodded respectfully, but his eyes narrowed with new focus. "Good speed."
They reset, and this time Jon found himself hard-pressed to match Wylis's adjusted strategy. The Manderly boy had learned from the first exchange and now used his longer reach to keep Jon at bay.
"You must be like the wind," Kyoshi's voice echoed in Jon's memory. "Flowing around obstacles rather than meeting them head-on."
Without thinking, Jon relaxed his stance slightly, focusing on his breathing as Kyoshi had taught. Something shifted in his awareness—the world seemed to slow fractionally, Wylis's movements becoming more predictable. Jon didn't just see the next strike coming; he felt it, sliding around the wooden blade with millimeters to spare.
The crowd gasped as Jon moved with sudden, faster speed. Even Ser Rodrik's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. Jon wasn't fighting as he'd been taught—he was moving differently, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he flowed around Wylis's attacks.
Three rapid touches later, Wylis stepped back, breathing hard. "Seven hells, Snow, where did you learn to move like that?"
Jon blinked, the strange awareness fading. He looked down at his hands, then at the impressed faces surrounding them. "I... just practice a lot."
From the edge of the crowd, he caught sight of green hair—Wylla watching with a knowing smile that made him flush.
"Again," Ser Rodrik commanded, his voice gruffer than usual. "And Snow, stick to the forms I've taught you."
Jon nodded, trying to ignore the whispers spreading through the onlookers. He hadn't used any strange power, had he? He'd just... moved. But even he couldn't explain the sudden clarity he'd felt, the way his body had responded without conscious thought.
As training continued, Jon deliberately held back, focusing on the familiar drills. But he could feel Wylis watching him with newfound respect, and worse, Theon's suspicious glare burning into his back.
"That was amazing!" Wylla declared, appearing beside Jon as he left the armory after returning his practice sword. "You moved like water! No one could touch you!"
Jon glanced around nervously. "Keep your voice down."
"Why? Everyone saw it." She fell into step beside him as he headed toward the kitchens. "Even my cousin can't stop talking about it, and Wylis never admits when someone's better than him."
"I wasn't better," Jon muttered. "Just faster."
"Much faster." Wylla's green eyes sparkled with excitement. "Is that part of your secret?"
Jon stopped walking. "I don't have a secret."
"Fine, be mysterious." She rolled her eyes. "But you should know, mysterious boys are very interesting to girls."
Jon felt his cheeks burn. "I'm not trying to be interesting."
"That's what makes it worse," she laughed. "Anyway, I've been thinking about last night. You owe me an adventure now that I found you in the godswood and didn't tell anyone you were hiding."
"I wasn't hiding," Jon protested automatically.
"Adventure," Wylla insisted, ignoring his objection. "I've never been to Winterfell before, and my father says we're leaving in seven days. I want to see everything."
Jon hesitated. He should be practicing what Kyoshi taught him, not playing tour guide to a girl who asked too many questions. Yet something about Wylla's straightforward manner appealed to him. Unlike most visitors, she looked him in the eye and spoke to him as an equal, not Lord Stark's shameful shadow.
"What do you want to see?" he found himself asking.
Wylla grinned triumphantly. "The crypts, the broken tower, the glass gardens, and any secret passages you know about."
"That would take all day."
"Good thing we're starting now then." She grabbed his wrist. "Lead the way, Jon Snow."
The glass gardens were warm and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp autumn air outside. Jon rarely visited—the gardens were Lady Stark's domain, and he avoided places where he might encounter her alone. But the workers were busy elsewhere, and Wylla had insisted.
"It's like summer in here," she marveled, touching the warm glass.
Jon watched her examine the various plants, her green hair blending with the foliage. "The hot springs beneath Winterfell heat the glass," he explained. "It's how we grow food even in winter."
"Smart," Wylla nodded appreciatively. "A practical sort of magic."
"It's not magic," Jon corrected. "Just heated water and glass."
Wylla gave him a skeptical look. "The First Men built Winterfell, and they had all sorts of magic. Maybe they enchanted the springs too."
Jon shrugged. The distinction seemed important to her for some reason.
"Do you believe in magic, Jon Snow?" she asked suddenly, picking a small blue flower that had no business blooming in the North.
The question caught him off-guard. Two days ago, he would have said no without hesitation. Now, with Kyoshi's voice still echoing in his mind and the memory of wind responding to his emotions...
"I don't know," he answered honestly.
Wylla studied him, twirling the flower between her fingers. "I do. My great-grandmother was from beyond the Wall, though my family doesn't like to talk about it. She used to tell my grandmother stories about skinchangers and children of the forest."
"Old Nan tells those stories too," Jon said. "About the Long Night and the White Walkers."
"Do you think they're just stories?"
Jon considered the question. "Most of them, probably. But maybe some have truth buried inside."
Wylla smiled, tucking the blue flower behind Jon's ear before he could protest. "That's what I think too. A practical sort of magic." She laughed at his discomfort with the flower. "It suits you. Brings out your eyes."
Jon plucked the flower from his hair, embarrassed but not truly annoyed. "We should go before someone comes."
"Fine, to the crypts next." Wylla headed toward the door, then stopped. "Oh! I almost forgot." She pulled something from her pocket. "I brought treats."
In her palm sat two lemon cakes, slightly squashed from being in her pocket. "I snuck them from breakfast. Thought we might need provisions for our adventure."
Jon stared at the offering, strangely touched by the gesture. No one ever saved treats for him.
.
.
"So, this is the armory?" Wylla asked, her green hair bouncing as she peered around the doorway. "It's smaller than I thought it would be."
"It's big enough," Jon replied with a half-smile.
"Do you practice with real swords or wooden ones?" Wylla asked, stepping fully into the armory and running her fingers along a training blade.
"Wooden ones until we're older," Jon explained, watching as she examined everything with boundless curiosity. "Ser Rodrik says we'll graduate to blunted steel next year, maybe."
"In White Harbor, my grandfather makes my sister take needlework lessons three times a week," Wylla said, wrinkling her nose. "But I convinced him to let me learn the bow instead." She pantomimed drawing a bowstring. "I'm getting quite good—I can hit the target six times out of ten now."
Jon raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "We could go to the archery range later if you like. I'm not as good as Robb, but I practice whenever I can."
"Yes!" Wylla's face lit up with excitement. "I'd love that! But first, show me everything else. Is there a tower we can climb? Or a secret passage? All proper castles have secret passages."
Jon couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm. "Winterfell has a few, but they're not really secret—just old servants' corridors and the like." He hesitated, then added with a conspiratorial tone, "There is one passage that runs beneath the Bell Tower that almost nobody uses anymore."
"Perfect! Let's go there first," Wylla declared, already heading toward the door.
Jon hurried after her, marveling at her energy. He had thought highborn ladies were like Sansa—prim, proper, and concerned with mannerly things. Wylla Manderly was like a whirlwind in human form.
As they crossed the courtyard, Jon noticed Theon Greyjoy watching them from near the stables. At thirteen, Theon considered himself far above spending time with "children," but Jon had noticed how his eyes followed the Manderly girls since their arrival.
Sure enough, Theon sauntered over to intercept them, his usual smirk firmly in place. "Lady Wylla," he said with an exaggerated bow. "Has Snow been boring you with tales of old stones and dusty corners? Perhaps you'd prefer a more... knowledgeable guide?"
Wylla tilted her head regarding Theon with a cool assessment. "And you would be?"
"Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands," he replied, puffing up his chest slightly.
"Ah, the hostage," Wylla said sweetly. "I remember now. My grandfather mentioned your father's little... misadventure. How fortunate Lord Stark is so merciful."
Jon nearly choked, trying to suppress a laugh as Theon's face darkened.
"I'm Lord Stark's ward," Theon corrected stiffly. "And I know Winterfell better than Snow here—I could show you places he's never seen."
"I doubt that very much," Wylla replied, her smile never wavering. "Jon grew up here, after all. Besides, I find him excellent company—quiet enough to actually hear myself think, unlike some who seem to love the sound of their own voice."
Theon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You should be careful who you insult, little girl. The Greyjoys don't forget—"
"Don't pay what you owe?" Wylla interrupted. "That's what my grandfather says about ironborn. 'They take and take, but they never give back.' Not a very admirable quality in a friend, I think."
Theon's face had gone from red to white with fury. "You'll regret that," he hissed before turning on his heel and stalking away.
"Was that too harsh?" Wylla asked Jon, looking suddenly uncertain. "Father says my tongue is sharper than my wits sometimes."
Jon shook his head, a genuine smile spreading across his usually solemn face. "No, it was... perfect, actually. No one talks to Theon like that."
"Well, someone should," Wylla sniffed. "He looks at girls like they're sweetcakes he wants to gobble up. My sister noticed it at dinner last night—we have a signal for when boys are being creepy."
Jon laughed outright at that, surprising himself. "I didn't know girls had signals for that sort of thing."
"Oh, we have signals for everything," Wylla said with a sage nod. "Now, show me this secret passage before Greyjoy comes back to try his luck again."
The old passage beneath the Bell Tower was narrow and dusty, lit only by the occasional shaft of light from cracks in the masonry above. Jon led the way with a small lantern he'd borrowed from Mikken's forge, while Wylla followed close behind, one hand clutching the back of his tunic to avoid losing him in the dimness.
"This is magnificent," she whispered, her voice echoing slightly. "How old do you think it is?"
"As old as Winterfell, probably," Jon replied, navigating a particularly tight corner. "Eight thousand years, if the stories are true."
"Eight thousand?" Wylla sounded awed. "White Harbor is barely a thousand years old. Grandfather says we're practically newcomers compared to houses like the Starks."
Jon nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him clearly. "The Kings of Winter ruled here since the Age of Heroes. The crypts are filled with them, all the way down to the lowest levels."
"Can we see the crypts?" Wylla asked hopefully.
Jon hesitated. "They're... sacred to House Stark. I don't think Lord Stark would approve of me taking visitors there."
"But you're a Stark too," Wylla pointed out.
"A Snow," Jon corrected automatically, the familiar ache settling in his chest.
Wylla made a dismissive noise. "Your father is Lord Stark, isn't he? That makes you a Stark in all the ways that matter."
Jon didn't answer, touched by her simple assertion but knowing the world didn't work that way. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the passage widened. "Look there—this opens into a small chamber that used to be a guard post, I think. Robb and I found it last year."
The chamber was little more than an alcove cut into the stone, but it had a small, arrow-slit window that offered a surprising view of the wolfswood beyond Winterfell's walls. Someone had left an old wooden crate there, which now served as a makeshift seat.
"This is wonderful," Wylla declared, rushing to the window and peering out. "A perfect secret spot. Do you come here often?"
"Sometimes," Jon admitted. "When I want to be alone."
"And now you've shown it to me," Wylla said, turning to face him with a broad smile. "Does that mean we're friends now?"
Jon blinked, caught off guard by her directness. "I... suppose it does."
"Good." Wylla plopped down on the crate, patting the space beside her. "Friends tell each other secrets. I'll go first: I hate the color green."
Jon sat beside her, brow furrowed in confusion. "But your hair..."
"Exactly!" Wylla laughed. "Grandfather was trying to arrange a match between my cousin and me once, and I didn't want it. So I dyed my hair green, thinking he'd be so horrified he'd cancel the whole thing." She tugged at a strand of her vibrant hair. "It worked, but then everyone in White Harbor loved it so much that Grandfather insisted I keep it. Said it was 'distinctive' and 'remembered me to the merman in our sigil.'"
Jon chuckled at the irony. "So you're stuck with it now?"
"At least until I find something more outrageous," Wylla confirmed with a mischievous grin.
And that, Jon decided as Wylla's chatter echoed in the narrow passage, was worth more than any secret chamber or hidden path in Winterfell.
.
.
By late afternoon, they'd circled back to the godswood. Jon had been avoiding it since meeting Kyoshi, but Wylla insisted on seeing the heart tree again in daylight.
"It feels different from our godswood in White Harbor," she said, approaching the ancient weirwood. "Older. More alive somehow."
Jon hung back, watching her place a reverent hand on the white bark. The carved face seemed to watch him accusingly, as if disappointed in his lack of progress with Kyoshi's teachings.
"My father says the old gods speak through the heart trees," Jon said. "That's why they have faces—to see and hear our prayers."
Wylla glanced back at him. "Have they ever answered you?"
Not the gods, Jon thought, but someone else entirely. "No."
"Maybe you're not listening properly." Wylla pressed her ear against the trunk in an exaggerated gesture. "I hear... absolutely nothing. Your gods are very quiet, Jon Snow."
Despite his unease, Jon laughed. "Maybe they don't speak to southerners with green hair."
Wylla gasped in mock offense. "White Harbor is in the North!"
"Barely," Jon teased. "You worship the Seven and eat fish instead of meat."
"We worship both," Wylla corrected, walking back to him. "The old and the new. And fish is meat, you savage wolf-boy."
Their banter continued as they sat beneath the heart tree, sharing stories about their lives. Jon found himself speaking more freely than he normally would, telling Wylla about growing up with his half-siblings.
"What about you?" he asked eventually. "What's it like being a Manderly?"
Wylla stretched her legs out on the moss. "Busy. White Harbor is always full of ships and traders and gossip. My grandfather expects us to know everything happening in the city, so we spend a lot of time just watching and listening." She tugged at a strand of her green hair. "It turns out my green hair can be useful for something. Strange hair is common among traders, so they talk more freely around me."
"Is that why you still keep it green? For spying?"
"Partly," she admitted. "But mostly because it annoys my mother and makes my grandfather laugh." Her expression grew more serious. "I like being different. People remember me, and in White Harbor, being memorable is valuable."
Jon nodded, understanding more than she might expect. As Ned Stark's bastard, he was memorable too, though not in ways he would choose.
"What will you do?" Wylla asked suddenly. "When you're grown. Will you stay at Winterfell?"
The question caught Jon by surprise. He rarely allowed himself to think so far ahead. "I don't know. There's not much place for a bastard. Maybe the Night's Watch, like my uncle Benjen."
Wylla frowned. "That's a waste. You could do anything."
"Bastards can't inherit lands or titles."
"So? There's more to life than inheritance." She sat up straighter. "You could be a knight, or a ship captain, or join a sellsword company in Essos. With how fast you move, you'd be famous in no time."
Jon had never considered such possibilities. His thoughts had always been constrained by his birth, his future seemingly predetermined by his bastardy.
"Maybe," he said noncommittally. "What about you?"
"I'll help run White Harbor someday," Wylla said with certainty. "My sister Wynafryd will marry someone and he will inherit, but she'll need me. I'm better with people, and she's better with numbers. Together we'll make House Manderly even greater." She grinned. "And I'll never stop dyeing my hair, even when I'm an old woman."
Jon could see it easily—Wylla as an elderly matriarch, still green-haired and sharp-tongued. The image made him smile.
"It's getting late," he said, noticing the lengthening shadows. "We should head back before the evening meal."
Wylla sighed dramatically. "I suppose our adventure is over then."
"For today," Jon found himself saying. "We still have two more days before you leave."
Her smile was answer enough.
That night, after the castle had quieted, Jon slipped from his bed. The meeting with Kyoshi still weighed on his mind, her instructions unfulfilled. If what she claimed was true—that he could control air—he needed to learn how.
He'd chosen a small, unused storeroom in the First Keep for his practice. The risk of discovery was minimal; the old keep was largely abandoned except for storage. A single candle provided just enough light to see by as Jon settled cross-legged on the stone floor.
"Center yourself," Kyoshi had instructed. "Feel the air around you as an extension of your being."
Jon closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing as she'd demonstrated: slow and steady, in and out. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. His legs grew numb, but he maintained his position, searching for the connection Kyoshi described.
When nothing happened, he attempted a different approach. Kyoshi had performed a series of circular movements with her arms, creating currents of air. Jon stood, mimicking the motions as best he could remember.
No matter how he moved, the air remained stubbornly still. Frustration built within him as he repeated the exercises, faster and with more force, willing something—anything—to happen.
"Why isn't this working?" he muttered, dropping his arms in defeat. The candle flame flickered but remained constant.
Jon slumped back to the floor, raking his hands through his dark curls. Perhaps he'd imagined the whole encounter with Kyoshi. Perhaps the wind at the feast had been coincidence, nothing more than a draft from an open door.
But deep down, he knew that wasn't true. Something had changed within him, awakened. He just couldn't reach it.
He tried again the next night, and the night after that, each attempt ending in failure. By the third evening—Wylla's third night in Winterfell—Jon's frustration had reached its peak.
"Show yourself," he demanded of the empty air, hoping Kyoshi might reappear. "I need help. I don't understand what you want from me."
Only silence answered. Jon paced the small storeroom, anger and disappointment churning inside him. Three days of friendship with Wylla had brightened his spirits, but each night's failure crushed that newfound optimism.
"Fine," he snapped to the empty room. "If you won't help me, I'll figure it out myself."
He stopped pacing, planted his feet, and thrust his palm forward as he'd seen Kyoshi do—but with all his frustration behind the movement. Nothing happened with the air, but to his shock, a tiny flicker of flame appeared above his open hand.
Jon stared in disbelief as the small fire danced above his palm for two heartbeats before vanishing. It hadn't come from the candle; it had appeared from nothing, from his own energy.
Not air, but fire.
He tried again, focusing on the warmth he'd felt, the image of flame in his mind. For a moment, nothing happened—then a spark, smaller than before but definitely there, materialized above his trembling fingers.
Jon's heart raced. This was different from the airbending Kyoshi had demonstrated. This was fire. Why fire and not air? Was he doing something wrong?
He made several more attempts, managing only the smallest flames that extinguished almost immediately. The effort left him exhausted, as if he'd run from Winterfell to Wintertown and back.
Jon slumped against the wall, mind reeling with questions. If he could create fire, did that mean he could eventually control all the elements, as Kyoshi claimed? And why did fire come to him first, when Kyoshi had been trying to teach him airbending?
He had no answers, only more questions. But one thing was certain—this was no imagination, no coincidence. He had created fire from nothing.
The candle guttered as a draft swept through the room. Jon stared at his hands in the fading light, both terrified and exhilarated by what he'd discovered.
Fire. The element of power, of destruction. The element that had nearly destroyed his father's family when the Mad King burned Rickard Stark.
Jon extinguished the candle and sat in darkness, pondering what this discovery meant. Fire answered his call, not air. Why? And what would Kyoshi think of this development?
More importantly, what was he to do with this power now that he'd found it?
If you want to Read 7 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'PerfectPage Patreon' in Google and Click the First LINK