The Three Headed Titan

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Chapter 9 (A Mermaid's Tears), Chapter 10 (What Lives After Love), Chapter 11 (Wings instead of Chains), Chapter 12 (The Blood That Heals), Chapter 13 (The Paths Before A Snow), Chapter 14 (Giants in the Snow), Chapter 15 (Horizons of the Wolf), and Chapter 16 (Hidden in Plain Sight) are already available for Patrons.

The morning sun glinted off the waves of White Harbor as Jon approached Wylla in the castle courtyard. His dark curls were slightly tousled by the sea breeze, and for once, his usual solemn expression had softened into something almost hopeful.

"Would you like to walk through the city with me?" he asked, then added with a hint of dry humor, "I promise to try not to brood too much."

Wylla's face lit up with a bright smile. "Look who's finally making jokes about himself," she teased, reaching for his hand. "And yes, but I have one condition."

"Which is?"

"I get to kiss you whenever I want," she declared, her green hair catching the sunlight as she tilted her head challengingly. "Even if we're in the middle of the fish market."

Jon's cheeks colored slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he laced his fingers through hers. "Even if I smell like fish afterward?"

"Especially then," she laughed. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite places."

They made their way down from White Harbor, Wylla pointing out landmarks along the cobblestone streets. "See that building with the blue shutters? Best meat pies in the North. And that tavern there – The Merry Merman – has singers from as far as Oldtown sometimes."

"You seem to know every corner of the city," Jon observed, ducking under a line of drying laundry strung between buildings.

"Of course I do. Grandfather says a ruler should know their people, not just their names in ledgers." She pulled him down a narrow alley that opened into a small square. "This is where the children play ships and pirates. I used to join them when I was younger, until Septa Merrianne caught me and had a fit about 'proper lady-like behavior.'"

Jon grinned. "Let me guess – you were the pirate queen?"

"Obviously," she said with mock offense. "Though sometimes I was a kraken. I did excellent kraken impressions."

They emerged onto the docks, where fishing boats were unloading their morning catch. The air was thick with the smell of salt and sea, and sailors called out to each other in half a dozen different languages.

"Have you ever been to Essos?" Jon asked suddenly, watching a Braavosi trading galley being guided into port.

Wylla's eyes sparkled. "I have, actually. Grandfather took me to Braavos when I was twelve, and we visited Pentos last year." She led him to a quiet spot overlooking the harbor. "Can I tell you something? Something I haven't told many people?"

Jon nodded, struck by the sudden seriousness in her tone.

"I want to be an explorer when I'm older," she confessed. "I want to sail to places beyond the maps, chart new trading routes, see things no Westerosi has ever seen before."

"That doesn't surprise me at all," Jon said softly, studying her beautiful face. "You never seemed like someone content to stay in one place."

"Most people laugh when I tell them. Or pat my head and say I'll grow out of it." She turned to face him fully. "You're the first person who's just... accepted it."

"Why wouldn't I? You're the most determined person I know. If anyone could do it, it would be you."

Wylla's response was to pull him down for a kiss, right there on the docks. When they parted, she was grinning. "I warned you about the random kissing."

"I'm not complaining," he murmured, still close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips.

They continued their walk, Wylla pointing out more locations – the shipwright's district where massive vessels took shape, the marketplace where traders from across the Known World haggled and bargained.

"Tell me about Braavos," Jon requested as they paused to watch a street performer juggle colored balls. "What was it like?"

"Magnificent," Wylla said, her eyes distant with memory. "The city rises right out of the sea, with canals instead of streets. The buildings are all different colors, and there's music everywhere – not just in taverns, but right on the streets. And the Titan!" She gestured expansively. "It's massive, Jon. When ships pass beneath it, they look like children's toys."

"No slavery there," Jon noted.

"No, thank the gods. That's why we mainly trade with the Free Cities – Braavos, Pentos, Lorath. Though even Pentos still has servants who are slaves in all but name." Her expression darkened. "I saw real slavery in Myr, when our ship had to stop there for repairs. I never want to see anything like that again."

Jon squeezed her hand. "You could change things, you know. As an explorer, as a trader. Make new routes that bypass the slave cities entirely."

"That's exactly what I want to do!" She pulled him down another street, this one lined with bookshops. "Look, this is where I get all my maps and sea charts. The owner, Magister Wendel, gets books from all over the world."

They spent the next hour in the shop, with Wylla showing Jon maps of places he'd only read about – the Summer Isles, Asshai, the ruins of Old Valyria. Her knowledge was impressive, and her enthusiasm infectious.

"This one," she said, carefully unrolling an old parchment, "shows trading routes that haven't been used since the Century of Blood. I've been studying them, trying to figure out if any could be reopened."

"Careful," Jon teased, "you're starting to sound like a proper lady of trade."

"Take that back!" she gasped in mock horror. "I am highly improper, I'll have you know. Just yesterday I scandalized Septa Merrianne by suggesting women should be allowed to captain ships."

"The horror," Jon deadpanned. "Next you'll be suggesting they should be allowed to wear breeches."

"Well, now that you mention it..." She grinned wickedly.

They left the bookshop and made their way through the fish market, where Wylla bartered with familiar ease for fresh oysters. They sat on the sea wall to eat them, legs dangling over the water.

"When did you first know you wanted to explore?" Jon asked, watching her expertly shuck an oyster.

"I was six," she said, handing him the opened shell. "A Summer Islander came to trade, and she had all these incredible stories about butterfly wings the size of dinner plates, and trees that touched the clouds. I decided right then that I wanted to see everything the world had to offer." She paused, looking at him curiously. "What about you? What did you want to be when you were six?"

Jon was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to be Aemon the Dragonknight," he admitted finally. "I used to pretend my practice sword was Dark Sister."

"Used to?" Wylla nudged his shoulder. "Don't think I haven't seen you naming your practice swords when you think no one's looking."

He laughed, the sound carrying across the water. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"So you keep saying," she agreed cheerfully. "And yet here you are, eating oysters with me and not brooding at all."

The sun was starting to set, painting the harbor in shades of gold and pink. They made their way back through the city, stopping occasionally for Wylla to make good on her promise of random kisses.

"There's one more place I want to show you," she said as they climbed back toward White Harbor. She led him to a hidden spot behind the Sept of the Snows, where a small garden overlooked the entire city and the sea beyond.

"I come here sometimes, when I need to think," she explained, sitting on a weathered stone bench. "You can see everything from here – the harbor, the ships, all the possibilities waiting out there."

Jon sat beside her, their shoulders touching. "Thank you for showing me your city," he said quietly.

"Thank you for wanting to see it," she replied, resting her head on his shoulder. "Most lords just see the trade numbers, the political advantages. They don't care about the street performers or the children playing pirates or the stories behind every shop and alley."

"I'm not most lords," he reminded her.

"No," she agreed, lifting her head to look at him. "You're much better."

The kiss this time was slower, sweeter than the playful ones they'd shared throughout the day. When they finally parted, the first stars were appearing in the darkening sky.

"So," Wylla said, breaking the comfortable silence, "same thing tomorrow? I still haven't shown you the glassworks district. Or the street where they make those meat pies you like."

"As my lady commands," Jon said with exaggerated formality, earning himself a punch in the arm.

"Don't start that again," she warned, but she was smiling. "Besides, you still owe me a proper sword lesson. My footwork is terrible."

"It really is," he agreed solemnly, dodging her second punch with a laugh.

As they finally made their way back to the castle proper, Wylla squeezed Jon's hand. "You know what the best part about being an explorer would be?"

"What's that?"

"Getting to choose your own path," she said softly. "No one telling you where you have to go or who you have to be."

Jon looked at her for a long moment, understanding dawning in his mismatched eyes. "That does sound nice," he admitted.

"Something to think about," she said lightly, but her green eyes were serious. "After all, the world is much bigger than just the North."

She kissed him one last time before they entered the castle.

Tomorrow

The glassworks district greeted them with waves of heat from its many furnaces, the air shimmering above the stone buildings. Even in the cool northern morning, Jon could feel the warmth radiating from the workshops they passed.

"How do you stand the heat?" he asked, watching Wylla navigate the familiar streets with ease. Unlike him, she seemed unbothered by the rising temperature.

"You get used to it," she replied, her green hair tied back in a practical braid. "Besides, the results are worth it. Wait until you see what they make here."

She led him to the first workshop, where massive windows let in natural light. Inside, glassblowers worked their magic, their cheeks puffed out as they breathed life into molten glass. Jon watched, fascinated, as one craftsman twisted and shaped the glowing material into an intricate vase.

"Master Torrhen," Wylla called out to a gray-haired man supervising the work. "Is it alright if I show Jon around?"

The master glassblower looked up, his weathered face breaking into a smile. "Lady Wylla! Of course, of course. Just keep clear of the furnaces." He eyed Jon appraisingly. "This the young man you've been talking about?"

Jon felt his cheeks warm, and not from the heat of the furnaces. Wylla, naturally, was completely unabashed.

"The very same. I'm showing him the finer points of White Harbor's crafts."

"Well then, you'll want to show him the dragon piece Mikal's working on," Torrhen suggested with a wink.

They moved deeper into the workshop, where a younger craftsman was carefully shaping what appeared to be a dragon's wing in glass. 

"It's for the Sept," Wylla explained. "Grandfather commissioned a series of stained glass windows depicting the history of White Harbor. This one shows Queen Alysanne's visit on Silverwing."

Jon stepped closer, mesmerized by the way the glass seemed to capture the very essence of dragonfire. "How do they make the colors?"

"Different minerals mixed into the glass," Wylla explained. "See those panels over there? The blue comes from copper, the red from gold." She grinned. "I spent half my childhood pestering the glassblowers with questions. Drove my septa mad – she thought I should be more interested in embroidery than trade crafts."

"Somehow I can't picture you sitting quietly with a needle," Jon said, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"I'll have you know I can embroider perfectly well," she protested. "I just choose not to. Come on, there's more to see."

They moved from workshop to workshop, each specializing in different techniques. One created delicate goblets that rang like bells when tapped. Another produced mirrors so clear they seemed like windows to another world. A third specialized in tiny glass figurines that captured every detail of their subjects.

"Look at this," Wylla said, carefully lifting a glass direwolf no bigger than her thumb. "Reminds me of the Stark sigil."

Jon studied the miniature wolf, amazed at the detail – each fur strand seemed individually rendered in the transparent glass. "How do they make something so small?"

"Very carefully," came a voice behind them. A woman with hands scarred from years of glasswork approached. "Each piece takes days to complete. One wrong move and..." she mimed something shattering.

"Mistress Leona makes the finest small pieces in White Harbor," Wylla told Jon proudly. "She taught me a bit about glasswork when I was younger."

"Taught you?" Jon looked at her with surprise.

"Just the basics," Wylla said. "How to gather the glass, how to shape simple forms. I wasn't very good at it, but it was fascinating to learn."

"She has a good eye," Leona added. "Even if her technique needed work. Here, let me show you something special."

She led them to a workbench where several pieces were cooling. Among them was a delicate glass rose, its petals caught in the moment of blooming.

"For you, my lady," Leona said, carefully wrapping it in soft cloth. "A thank you for last month's medicine when my boy was sick."

"You don't have to—" Wylla started, but Leona waved her off.

"I insist. Besides," she added with a knowing smile, "perhaps you can share it with your young man here."

They left the workshop with the wrapped rose, Wylla's cheeks slightly pink. "Everyone in the city is terrible at minding their own business," she muttered, but she was smiling.

"Is there anywhere in White Harbor where people don't know you?" Jon asked, amused.

"Probably not," she admitted. "Grandfather says it's important to know the people you serve. Not just the lords and merchants, but the craftsmen and fishermen too. Every person in this city contributes something valuable."

They paused at a small shop selling glass beads and trinkets. Through the window, they could see hundreds of colored glass pieces catching the light.

"I used to spend my pocket money here," Wylla said nostalgically. "I had this idea that I could buy enough beads to make a dress that would look like the sea. Septa Merrianne put a stop to that pretty quickly."

"I can picture it," Jon said, imagining a younger Wylla stringing together blue and green beads with determined concentration. "It would have suited you."

"More than proper lady's dresses?" she teased.

"Everything suits you," he said simply, and was rewarded with a kiss.

They continued through the district, stopping to watch a master craftsman create a complex piece that would become part of a chandelier for the Merman's Court. The man manipulated the molten glass with tools that looked like extensions of his own hands, turning and shaping the material with practiced ease.

"It's like magic," Jon murmured, watching the formless blob transform into elegant curves and spirals.

"Better than magic," Wylla replied. "This is skill and knowledge passed down through generations. Every piece tells a story – not just of its maker, but of all the masters who taught them, all the techniques refined over centuries."

She led him to one final workshop, smaller than the others but no less impressive. Here, the craftsmen worked with colored glass, creating intricate patterns that would become windows and decorative pieces.

"This is where they made the windows for my chamber," Wylla said, pointing to similar work in progress. "See how they layer the colors? When the sun hits them just right, it looks like the whole room is underwater."

"Is that why you chose them?" Jon asked. "To feel like you're at sea?"

She looked at him with surprise and pleasure. "Yes, exactly. Most people think I just liked the colors." She squeezed his hand. "You understand more than you let on, Jon Snow."

They emerged from the glassworks district as the sun reached its peak, their clothes slightly damp from the heat of the furnaces. Wylla carefully cradled her wrapped glass rose.

"Thank you for coming with me," she said as they made their way back toward the castle. "I know it's not as exciting as sword practice."

"I enjoyed it," Jon said honestly. "It's amazing, seeing how much skill and artistry goes into each piece. And..." he hesitated, then continued, "I like seeing this side of you. The way you know everyone, how much you care about the city and its crafts."

Wylla stopped walking and turned to face him. "You know what I like? That you actually pay attention. You don't just nod and smile like most lords would. You actually want to understand."

"I'm not—"

"If you say you're not a lord one more time, I'm going to throw this glass rose at your head," she threatened. "You are what you are, Jon Snow, and what you are is someone who cares about people and their work and their stories. That matters more than any title."

Before he could respond, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him, there in the middle of the street. She tasted of summer and possibility, and Jon found himself wondering, not for the first time, if maybe she was right about what really mattered.

"Now," she said when they parted, "let's get out of this heat before we both melt. And later, you can tell me more about what you thought of everything. I want to hear everything that comes out of your pretty lips."

Later

Jon stood at the window of his chambers in White Harbor, watching the harbor lights flicker in the gathering dusk. His fingers absently traced the glass rose Wylla had placed on his windowsill, its delicate petals catching the last rays of sunlight.

The past weeks had shifted something fundamental within him, like sand transforming into glass under intense heat. Every certainty he'd held about his future – the Wall, the Night's Watch, the path of honor his uncle Benjen had chosen – seemed less absolute now.

"What am I doing?" he murmured to himself, pressing his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

His reflection stared back at him, and for once, he didn't immediately see Ned Stark's bastard. Instead, he saw what Wylla seemed to see: just Jon, a young man with choices still before him, despite what his name might suggest.

The memory of their walk through the glassworks district still lingered, not just the sights and sounds, but the way she'd moved through her city with such confidence and care. The way she'd known everyone's names, their stories, their crafts. The way she'd looked at him when he'd asked questions about the glassmaking process, her green eyes bright with pleasure at his genuine interest.

He moved to his bed and sat heavily, running a hand through his dark curls. Growing up in Winterfell, he'd learned early to keep his feelings guarded, to expect less, to step back and let others take the lead. But Wylla... she demanded honesty, pushed past his careful walls with the same determination she brought to everything else.

"Seven hells," he muttered, falling back onto the bed.

It wasn't just attraction – though there was plenty of that, with her bright smiles and impulsive kisses and the way her green hair caught the sunlight. It was the way she saw the world as full of possibilities rather than limitations. The way she dreamed of exploring distant shores without shame or hesitation. The way she made him feel like his dreams might be worth pursuing too.

A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.

"Come in," he called, sitting up quickly.

Ser Marlon entered, carrying a stack of books. "Lady Wylla asked me to bring these to you," he said, placing them on the desk. "Something about trading routes and the Free Cities."

Jon felt his cheeks warm slightly, but Ser Marlon's expression held no judgment, only a knowing sort of amusement.

"Thank you," Jon managed.

"She's a special one, our Wylla," Ser Marlon said casually. "Not many young ladies would spend their time studying trade routes and ship designs." He paused at the door. "Then again, not many young men would appreciate such interests in a lady."

After the knight left, Jon examined the books. Each one had small pieces of parchment marking specific pages, with notes in Wylla's decisive handwriting. Maps of trading routes, histories of successful merchant ventures, accounts of explorations beyond the known world.

She was sharing her dreams with him, he realized. Not just talking about them, but showing him the substance behind them, the careful research and planning that went into making dreams into reality.

Jon moved back to the window, where the glass rose caught the light of the rising moon. He remembered what she'd said about choosing your own path, about the world being bigger than just the North. The Wall had always seemed like his only choice, an honorable way to make something of himself despite his birth.

But now...

Now he found himself imagining other possibilities. Sailing to distant ports, mapping new trading routes, building something meaningful that had nothing to do with his name or lack thereof. And in every one of these imaginings, there was a flash of green hair and a challenging smile, daring him to dream bigger.

"I'm in trouble," he said to the empty room, but he was smiling as he said it.

He thought of Wylla's words in the glassworks district: "You are what you are, Jon Snow, and what you are is someone who cares about people and their work and their stories. That matters more than any title."

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop letting his birth define his future. 

He fell asleep with the taste of salt air on his lips and dreams of distant shores in his head.

' The dream came to Jon like a tide washing over stone. He stood before a tree so vast its crown was lost in the clouds, its trunk wider than Winterfell's great hall. The bark was white as bone, yet no weirwood this – its leaves shimmered like beaten gold in a wind he couldn't feel.

At its base, darkness yawned – a cave mouth carved into the living wood. And there she stood, Ymir, her golden hair flowing as if underwater, her purple eyes glittering like stars, and beside her stood someone else. Still, this person appeared like a man, but his entire figure was made out of shadows; Jon couldn't even see his face except his glittering green eyes that reminded Jon of his own green eye. 

Find me, her voice whispered in his mind, clear as winter air. Find the tree.

She didn't move her lips, but Jon felt each word settle in his bones like the first snow of winter. The massive tree pulsed with a heartbeat that wasn't its own, and Ymir's form began to fade into the darkness of the cave.

Find us.

Jon woke with a gasp, his sheets tangled around him, the taste of sap sweet on his tongue. Through his window, the first light of dawn was breaking over White Harbor, but in his mind's eye, he could still see those ancient eyes.

Tomorrow

"Come on, Jon! I want to show you something amazing," Wylla said, practically bouncing with excitement as she adjusted her riding gloves. Her green hair was braided tightly against her head, a practical style for riding that somehow made her look even more striking.

Jon frowned, his mismatched eyes – focusing on her with concern. "After what happened with the bear? Wylla, wandering into the forest isn't the wisest choice right now."

"Oh, don't be such a worrier," she teased, though her expression softened at his genuine concern. "It's barely outside the walls. Besides," she added with a grin, "I've arranged for five of our best guards to accompany us. See?" She gestured to where five mounted Manderly soldiers waited, their armor gleaming in the morning sun.

"My lady has insisted this expedition is worth the risk," said Ser Marros, the lead guard, with a mixture of resignation and fondness that suggested he was well-acquainted with Wylla's adventurous spirit.

Jon ran a hand through his dark curls, a habit he'd developed when deep in thought. "And you won't tell me what this mysterious something is?"

"Trust me, you'll love it. It's exactly the sort of thing that would appeal to your brooding nature."

"I don't brood," Jon protested automatically, earning laughs from both Wylla and the guards.

"Of course not," Wylla agreed, far too quickly. "You just... contemplate deeply. Now, are you coming or not?"

Jon looked at the assembled group, then back at the castle walls. He was stronger now than he'd been during the bear attack, his daily training sessions with the Manderly master-at-arms having honed his skills further. And with five experienced guards...

"Fine," he conceded, unable to resist Wylla's infectious enthusiasm. "But we stay close to the walls."

"Yes, yes," Wylla agreed, already urging her horse forward. "Now hurry up!"

They rode out through the Hunter's Gate, the guards forming a loose protective circle around Jon and Wylla. The forest here was different from the wolfswood near Winterfell – the trees were shorter, shaped by constant sea winds, and the undergrowth was thicker with salt-resistant plants Jon didn't recognize.

"How much further?" Jon asked after they'd been riding for about fifteen minutes.

Wylla just laughed and spurred her horse ahead. "Race you there!"

"My lady!" called out Ser Marros in protest, but she was already gone, weaving between the trees with practiced ease.

Jon couldn't help but grin as he urged his own mount forward, following the flash of green hair through the forest. Behind him, he heard the guards scrambling to keep up, their armor clanking with each movement.

The chase was brief but exhilarating. Wylla led them through a winding path that seemed to go nowhere until suddenly, the trees opened up into a small clearing. And there, dominating everything, was the tree.

Jon pulled his horse to a stop, his mismatched eyes widening in amazement. The tree was enormous, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. It must have been at least a hundred meters tall, its trunk wider than several men standing shoulder to shoulder. The bark was a deep, rich brown, scored with age-old patterns.

"Seven hells," breathed one of the guards. "How did we not know this was here?"

"It's not visible from the walls," Wylla explained, dismounting her horse. "The other trees hide it until you're right upon it. I only found it because I got a bit... turned around during a ride last year."

"Got lost, you mean," Ser Marros corrected dryly, but he too was staring at the tree in wonder.

Jon dismounted and approached the massive trunk, his boots crunching on fallen leaves. The tree seemed to radiate an ancient presence like a sleeping giant that had stood watch over these woods since the Age of Heroes. 

"Look at this," Wylla called, gesturing to the base of the tree.

Jon moved closer and saw what had caught her attention. There was an opening at the foot of the tree, a dark hollow that seemed to continue downward into the earth. It wasn't large – a person would have to crawl to enter.

"Don't get too close, my lady," warned one of the younger guards, Ser Willem. "We don't know how deep that goes."

Jon remembered the tree from his dream; he felt as if someone was watching them, but when he looked around, there was no one there. Jon picked up a small stone and dropped it into the opening. They all listened, but no sound of impact came back to them. Ymir, I'm here. Where are you? Jon wondered to himself, almost expecting an answer, but none came. He wondered if he was supposed to crawl into that hole and see where it brought him.

"What do you think?" Wylla asked, watching Jon's face closely. "Isn't it magnificent?"

Jon circled the tree slowly, taking in its massive scale. His green eye appeared darker in the forest shade, while the purple one seemed to catch what little light there was.

"It's incredible," he said finally. "It must be ancient. Older than White Harbor itself, maybe."

"Older than the Manderlys in the North, certainly," Wylla agreed. She reached out to touch the bark, tracing one of the strange patterns. "See these markings? They're not random. Look here – doesn't this one look like a ship?"

Jon moved closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he examined the pattern she was pointing to. She was right – there was something deliberate about the scoring in the bark. Some looked like crude pictures, others like symbols he didn't recognize.

"Could be the First Men," suggested Ser Marros, who had joined them in examining the trunk. "They were known to mark important places."

"Or the children of the forest," added Wylla excitedly. "Old Tana's stories say they could speak to trees, make them grow in certain ways."

"Old Nan's stories say a lot of things," Jon said, but he was smiling. The tree did have a magical quality about it, standing here while kingdoms rose and fell around it.

They spent the next hour exploring the clearing, the guards maintaining a watchful perimeter while Jon and Wylla studied the tree from every angle. Wylla had brought paper and charcoal, and she made careful rubbings of some of the more distinct markings.

"Grandfather will want to see these," she said, carefully storing the papers in her saddlebag. "He loves anything to do with history."

"Your grandfather seems to love anything that makes White Harbor unique," Jon observed.

"Of course he does! That's what makes him such a good lord." Wylla's voice took on the passionate tone it always did when discussing her city. "He understands that every special thing about White Harbor, every secret and story, makes it stronger. Makes the people prouder to call it home."

"Like you," he said without thinking.

"What?"

"You make people proud of White Harbor too. The way you care about everything here, the way you know all the stories and the people. It's... inspiring."

Wylla's cheeks flushed pink, but her smile was radiant. "Jon Snow, was that actually a compliment? Without any brooding qualifiers?"

"I told you, I don't brood," he protested, but he was smiling too.

Their moment was interrupted by Ser Willem calling out, "My lady, my lord, we should head back soon. The light will be failing before long."

They gathered their things and mounted up, but before they left, Wylla rode close to the tree one last time. "We'll be back," she promised it. "There are too many mysteries here to solve in one day."

As they rode back toward White Harbor, Jon wondered why Ymir showed him the tree to his dream. Who was the figure beside her? What was happening with him?

Six Days Later

Over the next few days, Jon and Wylla returned to the giant tree repeatedly, each visit revealing new details in its ancient bark. By their fourth visit, they had documented most of the visible markings, and Wylla had created a detailed map showing the safest path through the forest to reach it.

On their fifth visit, while Wylla was sketching a particularly intricate pattern that looked like intertwined serpents, Jon decided to examine the hollow at the base more carefully.

"Be careful," Wylla called out, not looking up from her work.

Jon lay flat on his stomach, peering into the darkness with a torch. The opening was barely wide enough for his shoulders, and as he extended the torch forward, his heart nearly stopped. The hollow wasn't just a shallow depression as they'd thought – it dropped away sharply, descending into a black void that seemed to have no bottom.

"Gods," he muttered, quickly pulling back. "It's a shaft of some kind. Deep enough that..." He didn't finish the thought, but Wylla understood.

"Deep enough that falling would mean death," she completed grimly. "Well, that's disappointing. I was hoping we might find some ancient treasure down there."

"Your grandfather would have my head if I let you explore something like that," Jon said, standing and brushing dirt from his clothes.

The five guards, who had grown accustomed to these expeditions, maintained their usual watchful positions around the clearing. The afternoon sun was beginning to slant through the trees, casting long shadows.

"We should head back soon," Jon suggested, helping Wylla pack away her sketching materials.

That's when they heard it – a sharp, piercing whistle that seemed to come from all directions at once.

"Shields!" Ser Marros shouted, but it was too late.

Arrows hissed through the air like angry wasps. Two found gaps in the guards' armor – one taking Ser Willem in the throat, another striking Ser Marros in the arm.

"Take the lady! Kill the rest!" a rough voice bellowed.

They erupted from the undergrowth – wildlings, at least twenty of them, wielding crude weapons. Jon's blood ran cold when he spotted two carrying proper steel swords – deserters from the Night's Watch, most likely, leading this raid.

"Wylla, get behind me!" Jon drew his sword.

The three uninjured guards formed a protective circle around Jon and Wylla, while Ser Marros, despite his wound, raised his sword with his good arm.

"Fancy sword you got there, boy," one of the deserters called out, his black cloak tattered but still recognizable. "Give us the green-haired girl, and maybe we'll let you keep it when you're dead."

"You want her?" Jon's voice was deadly calm, his mismatched eyes hard as stone. "Come and try."

The wildlings charged with savage war cries. Jon had fought them before, knew their tendency to attack in overwhelming numbers rather than with skill. But these were led by trained men, making them far more dangerous.

Wylla had drawn a dagger – a gift from her grandfather, Jon remembered – and stood ready.

Soon, two more guards fell as Jon tried to protect Wylla, but they were too many of them.

Jon's vision turned red as fury consumed him. The wildling charging at him never saw the punch coming - Jon's fist connected with devastating force, obliterating the man's lower jaw in a spray of bone, teeth, and gore.

"Seven hells!" one of the deserters screamed, stumbling backward as pieces of his companion's face rained down.

Jon didn't pause. His sword sang through the air in a brutal arc, cleaving straight through one raider's neck. The head flew several feet before landing with a wet thud, eyes still blinking in confusion. In the same move, he pivoted and took another wildling's head clean off, arterial spray painting the ancient tree's bark crimson.

An arrow suddenly punched through Jon's thigh and another on his stomach. He growled in pain but didn't falter. To everyone's shock, steam began rising from the wounds as flesh knitted itself back together around the arrow.

"What in the bloody fuck are you?!" a wildling shrieked, backing away in terror.

"Your worst nightmare."

He launched himself at the nearest group, his sword becoming a whirlwind of death. The steel opened throats and severed limbs with terrifying ease. One wildling's torso was nearly bisected, his intestines spilling onto the forest floor as he screamed.

"Please, mercy!" begged another as Jon advanced.

"Like you showed mercy to innocent villagers?" Jon's blade took the man's sword hand, then his head.

A spear caught Jon in the side, but steam hissed from the wound almost immediately. The pain was intense, but he fought through it, spinning to catch his attacker's neck with his bare hand. The wildling's throat crushed like ripe fruit under Jon's impossible strength.

Blood loss was taking its toll despite his healing. His vision swam as three raiders attacked at once, their crude weapons opening deep gashes across his chest and back. Steam rose from each wound, but the agony only fueled his anger.

His sword danced and sang its song of death. One wildling was literally disemboweled, another lost both arms before Jon's backswing took his head. The third died screaming as Jon's blade split him from collar to groin.

"Die, you fucking monster!" A huge raider stabbed Jon from behind with a rusted sword.

Jon whirled with frightening speed, his fist punching and crushing the man's chest like it was made of glass. The man choked on his blood as he fell to the ground. The last Manderly knight had died, but few wildlings were left.

The clearing had become a charnel house. Dismembered corpses littered the blood-soaked ground. Steam rose from Jon's numerous wounds as they sealed themselves, but each healing brought fresh waves of agony.

Only three raiders remained when a sharp voice cut through the carnage: "Stop now, or I will kill this bitch!"

Jon turned, his heart freezing. One of the deserters had Wylla in a brutal grip; steel pressed against her pale throat. Her green hair was matted with blood - though thankfully not her own - and her eyes were wide with fear, a wildling near her feet, choking on her blood with a wound on his neck, and blood dripped from Wylla's knife.

"Drop your sword," the only deserter commanded, "or I'll paint the ground with her blood."

Jon's grip tightened on his sword's hilt as his mind raced. The other two wildlings moved to flank him, weapons ready. Blood dripped steadily from Jon's healing wounds. He had lost too much blood and could hardly keep himself standing.

"You're some kind of demon," the deserter continued, pressing the blade harder against Wylla's throat. "But even demons can't move faster than a knife."

"Jon, don't. Just kill those bastards. Don't list-" Her voice was muffled when the deserter closed her mouth with his hand and pushed the blade hard enough against her neck for a trail of blood to roll down her neck.

"Do not hurt her!" Jon shouts. 

"Put down your weapon, boy, and we will let her live."

Jon slowly let go of the blade. The wildling hissed before ordering, "Kill him."

Jon gasps as a blade punctures his back, coming out from his stomach. He watches as Wylla screams his name and tries to struggle, but in that struggle, the deserter got angry when she slashes his eye with her knife. Jon tried to run towards them with everything he had when the second wildling drove his bone knife into his stomach from the side. 

With a roar of fury and anger, the deserter drove his knife into her neck.

"NOOOO!" Jon screamed in horror, his voice raw with anguish. Wylla's body crumpled to the ground, blood staining the snow, her eyes watching him.

Suddenly, a familiar feeling of strength surged through Jon, but this time, he didn't fight it back; he let it consume him. Golden lightning began to dance and crackle around his wounds. The gashes on his stomach started to close as threads of muscle and sinew knitted back together.

The wildlings watched in stunned disbelief as a massive bolt of golden lightning struck down from the sky, enveloping Jon in a blinding flash. His body began to swell and grow, bones elongating and muscles bulging grotesquely.

In mere moments, where Jon had stood, there was now a tall creature that looked like it had sprung from a nightmare. It had the bulging musculature and disproportionate limbs of a human. But the face...the face was a horrifying visage, like a sneering demon hungry for blood, and on his scapulas, there was a strange mark on each one.

The transformed Jon threw his gigantic head back and let out a bellowing roar that shook the ground, golden lightning still crackling across his hulking frame, his mismatched eyes glittering with fury as he looked down at the wildlings.

"Kill Them."

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