Hello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish the first Chapter of The Three Headed Titan
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' in Google and Click the First LINK
The following 8 chapters are already available to Patrons.
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), Chapter 16 (Hidden in Plain Sight), Chapter 17 (Paths of the Eldians), Chapter 18 (Blood of the Dragon, Blood of the Wolf), and Chapter 19 (Mismatched Eyes, Matched Blades) are already available for Patrons.
The moonlight filtered through Jon's window at White Harbor, casting long shadows across his chamber. Sleep eluded him, as it had for the past several nights. Every time he closed his eyes, the images came – massive hands, larger than any giant's, tearing through flesh and bone. Steam rising from torn flesh. Screams that seemed distant, as if heard through water.
He sat up in his bed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Lord Manderly's words echoed in his mind: "Three of them... gods be good, we could barely tell they were men at all. Like something had... had torn them apart."
Jon looked down at his own hands in the dim light. Normal hands, a swordsman's hands, calloused and strong but decidedly human-sized. Yet in his flashes of memory, he saw hands that could crush a man like a grape, hands wreathed in steam...
"It's not possible," he whispered to the empty room. "It can't be real."
But the footprints in the snow had been real. Massive, deep impressions that had made the hardened northern soldiers pale. And those three bodies, reduced to...
Jon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but they only grew stronger. His head began to spin, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself standing in that familiar endless desert.
The great tree of light towered before him, its branches reaching into an eternally twilit sky. Unlike the weirwoods of the North, this tree seemed made of pure light, its "leaves" shifting and flowing like liquid starlight.
"Ymir?" His voice echoed across the empty sands. "Ymir, please. I need answers!"
Only silence answered him. The wind whispered across the dunes, carrying grains of golden sand that seemed to sparkle with their own light.
"YMIR!" He shouted this time, his desperation evident in his voice. "I'm seeing things I can't explain. I need to know if I... if I did something to those men. Please!"
Movement caught his eye, but it wasn't the silver-dressed woman he'd expected. Instead, a boy about his own age stood several paces away, watching him with intense green eyes – eyes that matched Jon's left eye perfectly. His dark hair shifted in the ethereal wind, and something about his stance made Jon's skin prickle with recognition.
"Who are you?" Jon asked, taking a step forward.
The boy remained silent, his face impassive. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his left arm and pointed directly at Jon with his index finger. When he spoke, the words were of a language he had never heard.
"I don't understand," Jon said, frustration creeping into his voice. "Please, what are you trying to tell me?"
The boy's form began to change, his skin taking on a golden-brown hue like the surrounding sand. Before Jon's eyes, the boy's body began to crumble, starting from his feet and working upward. It wasn't like watching someone collapse – it was as if he was being unmade, grain by grain, until nothing remained but a pile of glittering sand where he had stood.
A presence materialized behind him. Jon spun around to find Ymir watching him with those ageless eyes. Her silver dress seemed to capture and reflect the tree's light, making her appear to glow from within.
"You asked for answers," she said, her voice both young and old at once. "But are you ready for them?"
"Ready?" Jon's voice cracked with emotion. "I see things that can't be real. I have memories that make no sense. Three men died in ways that..." he trailed off, struggling to find the words.
"In ways that only a Titan could manage?" Ymir suggested softly.
Jon's breath caught. "A... what?"
"A Titan. A power passed down through paths that connect all Eldians. Your blood carries this legacy, Jon Snow, though how it found its way to your world, even I cannot say."
"My world?" Jon shook his head. "You speak in riddles. What do you mean, my world? And what was that boy? Why did he have my eye?"
Ymir walked past him, her feet leaving no impressions in the sand. She stopped where the boy had crumbled and knelt, letting the golden grains run through her fingers.
"He represents the power that now flows through your blood. The Attack Titan has always fought for freedom, always pushed forward. Like you, Jon Snow."
"The Attack Titan," Jon repeated slowly. "Are you saying... those huge hands I remember, that was..."
"You," Ymir confirmed, rising to her feet. "When Wylla died, your pain and rage awakened the power within you. The Attack Titan manifested, and you destroyed those who had hurt her."
Jon felt his legs weaken, and he sank to his knees in the sand. "So I did kill them. Like... like that. I became some kind of monster."
"A monster?" Ymir's voice held a note of challenge. "Is that what you think? The power of the Titans is neither good nor evil, Jon Snow. It is a tool, like your sword, like your strength. It is what you make of it."
"But I don't remember it clearly. I could hurt someone else, I could—"
"You remember more than you think," Ymir interrupted. "The flashes you see are not dreams – they are memories trying to surface. Your mind shields you from the full impact, but in time, you will remember everything."
"And what then?" Jon asked, looking up at her. "What am I supposed to do with this... this power?"
Ymir's expression softened slightly. "That is not for me to decide. Your blood connects two worlds – the power of the Eldians and something else, something older that flows through your veins. What you do with these gifts is your choice."
"Something else?" Jon frowned. "What do you mean?"
But Ymir was already turning away, her form beginning to fade. "Learn to control the power, Jon Snow. Learn to remember. The answers you seek will come in time, but first, you must accept what you are."
"Wait!" Jon scrambled to his feet. "Please, I have more questions!"
"We will speak again," Ymir's voice was growing distant. "But for now, remember this: the Attack Titan has always moved forward, seeking freedom. Like the boy you saw, it is a part of you now. Embrace it, or be consumed by it."
"Ymir!" Jon reached for her fading form, but his hand passed through empty air.
The desert began to blur around him, the tree of light dimming. Just before everything faded completely, Jon heard Ymir's voice one last time:
"The power is yours now, Jon Snow. What matters is not how you got it, but what you choose to do with it."
Jon's eyes snapped open. He was back in his chamber at White Harbor, dawn's first light creeping through his window. His heart was racing, but his mind felt clearer than it had in days.
He rose and walked to the window, looking out over the harbor as the sun began to rise. The Attack Titan, she had called it. A power passed down through blood he somehow shared with people from another world.
It should have seemed impossible, mad even. Yet as he stood there, watching the morning light paint the sky in shades of gold and pink, Jon felt the truth of it in his bones. The flashes of memory were growing clearer – he could remember the steam rising from his massive form, the raw power coursing through him, the rage and grief that had triggered his transformation.
"What you choose to do with it," he murmured, echoing Ymir's words.
He flexed his hand, wondering if he could control it now, if he could summon that power at will. But no – he wasn't ready. Not yet. First, he needed to remember everything, to understand exactly what had happened that day by the tree.
A knock at his door startled him from his thoughts.
"Jon?" It was Robb's voice. "Father wants us to break our fast with him."
"I'll be right there," Jon called back, already moving to dress.
As he prepared for the day ahead, Jon made a silent promise to himself. He would learn to control this power, to understand it.
Later
Jon adjusted the collar of his dark gray doublet, the fabric still stiff from its recent washing. He'd barely worn any of his clothes in the past week. But today was different. Today he had to face the world again.
Robb stood in the hallway, dressed in Stark colors – a brown leather jerkin over a gray wool tunic, with dark breeches and polished boots. His auburn hair was neatly combed, but his blue eyes held a shadow of worry as he studied his brother.
"You look... better," Robb said carefully, noting how Jon had actually made an effort with his appearance. The dark circles under his mismatched eyes were still there, but some of the haunted look had faded.
Jon ran a hand through his dark curls, which he'd attempted to tame this morning. "I feel..." he paused, considering his words. For a moment, the weight of his secret pressed against his tongue. How easy it would be to tell Robb everything – about the healing steam, about the massive hands he remembered, about Ymir and the desert of golden sand.
But the words wouldn't come. How could he explain something he barely understood himself?
Instead, he said, "Father came to see me last night. He... helped me see things differently."
Relief flooded Robb's features. "Good. We've all been worried. These past seven days, you wouldn't even look at anyone during meals, when you bothered to come at all."
Jon's fingers absently traced the worn leather of his sword belt. "I know. I'm sorry for that. I just needed..."
"Time," Robb finished for him. He shifted his weight, and Jon noticed a slight hesitation in his brother's stance.
"What is it?" Jon asked.
"Lady Wynafryd asked to speak with you."
Jon felt his whole body go rigid. His right hand clenched involuntarily.
"W-what does she want?" The words came out stuttered, his throat suddenly dry.
Robb stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Jon's shoulder. "Brother, she doesn't blame you. None of them do."
"How can they not?" Jon's voice was barely above a whisper. "If someone had failed to protect Arya like I failed to protect Wylla..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"You didn't fail anyone," Robb said firmly. "You were outnumbered more than five to one. The fact that you survived at all is..."
"A miracle?" Jon said bitterly, thinking of those three mangled bodies he couldn't quite remember destroying.
"I was going to say 'remarkable,'" Robb replied. "Jon, you can't keep avoiding everyone forever. Especially not Wylla's family."
Jon closed his eyes for a moment, remembering his father's words from the night before. Face the consequences before they pile up, he'd said. Running from them only makes them grow larger in your mind.
"After we break our fast," Jon said finally, opening his eyes. "I'll speak with her then."
Robb nodded, clearly relieved. "She'll be in the glass gardens. She spends most mornings there now... it was Wylla's favorite place."
They began walking toward the great hall, their boots echoing on the stone floors. Jon noticed servants giving him quick, furtive glances as they passed. He wondered what stories they'd heard about that day in the woods.
"Father wants us to leave for Winterfell tomorrow," Robb said as they walked. "Do you think you're ready?"
Jon thought of the massive footprints that must still be visible in the snow near that tree. "Yes," he said quickly. "I think... I think it's time to go home."
They entered the great hall, where breakfast was being served. Lord Manderly sat at the high table with Ned Stark, both men engaged in quiet conversation. Jon noticed Lord Manderly was wearing his usual fine green wool and white silk, the colors of his house, while his father wore the practical dark leathers and furs of the North.
As they made their way to their seats, Jon couldn't help but look at the empty chair where Wylla used to sit. She'd always worn her hair dyed green, shocking many of the more conservative nobles. But that was Wylla – defiant, unique, unafraid to be herself. Even her clothes had been different, preferring bright colors and patterns that made her stand out rather than blend in.
"My son," Ned Stark's voice pulled Jon from his memories. "Come, sit."
Jon took his place beside his father, noting the concerned looks both lords gave him. He forced himself to sit straight, to appear stronger than he felt.
"We'll be leaving tomorrow at first light," Ned said, buttering a piece of bread. "Lord Manderly has been kind enough to provision us well for the journey."
"It's the least I can do," Wyman Manderly said, his usually jovial voice subdued. "And Jon... I hope you'll speak with Wyna before you go. She's been asking after you."
Jon nodded, not trusting his voice. He picked at the food on his plate – eggs, bacon, fresh bread – but found little appetite for any of it.
"Eat," his father said quietly. "You'll need your strength for the ride home."
Jon managed a few bites, more to please his father than from any real hunger. His mind was already on the coming conversation with Lady Wynafryd. What could she possibly want to say to him? What could he possibly say to her?
After the meal, Jon found himself walking toward the glass gardens, his feet feeling heavier with each step. The morning sun filtered through the glass panels, creating patterns of light and shadow on the stone path. He could smell the herbs and flowers growing within – rosemary, lavender, winter roses, and dozens of others he couldn't name.
He paused at the entrance, his hand resting on the iron handle of the door. Through the glass, he could see Lady Wynafryd Manderly standing among the plants, wearing a dress of sea-green silk with white trim. Her brown hair was arranged in an elegant braid that fell over one shoulder, so different from her sister's wild green locks.
For a moment, Jon considered turning back. But then he remembered Ymir's words about the Attack Titan always moving forward, and Ned's counsel about facing what frightened you.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, fragrant air of the glass gardens. Lady Wynafryd turned at the sound, and Jon saw that her eyes were red-rimmed, though her face was composed.
"Jon Snow," she said softly. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."
Jon bowed slightly, his throat tight. "My lady, I... I'm sorry for avoiding everyone. For avoiding you."
"As did I. Grief makes us do strange things."
She turned back to the plant she had been tending – a small bush with bright blue flowers that Jon didn't recognize.
"These were her favorite," Wynafryd continued. "She called them ocean stars because they reminded her of the way the sea looks on a clear night. She was always finding beauty in unexpected places."
Jon stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to say or do. The memory of Wylla's last moments played in his mind – her defiance even with a knife at her throat, the way she'd fought back...
"My lady," he began, his voice rough with emotion, "I failed her. I should have—"
"Should have what?" Wynafryd turned back to him, her eyes sharp now. "Should have been stronger than thirty armed men? Should have seen the future? Should have died with her?"
The warmth of the glass gardens seemed stifling now as Jon struggled to maintain his composure. His fingers trembled slightly against the dark fabric of his doublet, and he could feel sweat beginning to form at the nape of his neck despite the winter chill outside.
"Yes," he whispered, his mismatched eyes meeting Wynafryd's. "At least then she wouldn't have died alone."
Wynafryd's face softened, and she stepped closer, her sea-green silk dress rustling against the stone path. The morning light filtering through the glass cast dappled shadows across her face, highlighting the tears that threatened to fall.
"Do you think that's what she would have wanted?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "For you to die needlessly alongside her?"
Jon's throat tightened. "I don't know what she would have wanted. I only know that I see her every time I close my eyes. I see her fighting back, refusing to show fear even when..." He broke off, his right hand clenching involuntarily as the memory of steam and rage flickered at the edges of his consciousness.
Wynafryd reached out and took his clenched fist in both her hands.
"My sister," Wynafryd said, her voice thick with emotion, "was the strongest person I knew. Not with a sword or in physical strength, but in her spirit. She defied everything expected of her, from her hair to her choices in life." She squeezed his hand gently. "Including whom she chose to love."
Jon's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "You knew?"
A sad smile crossed Wynafryd's face. "Of course I knew. She was my sister. She told me everything." She released his hand and turned back to the ocean star flowers. "She said you were different from other men. That you saw her for who she was, not for what others wanted her to be."
"I didn't deserve her," Jon said quietly, his eyes fixed on the delicate blue petals.
"That's not for you to decide," Wynafryd replied sharply. "She chose you, Jon Snow. And from what I heard of that day..." She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "I don't know what happened there, but you were found alive, and the wildlings who had ambushed you and Wylla. They were all dead. That doesn't sound like failure to me."
Jon's mind flashed to the parts they hadn't seen – the transformation he couldn't fully remember, the destruction he'd apparently caused.
"My lady," he started, but Wynafryd cut him off.
"Wynafryd. Please. After everything... just Wynafryd."
Jon nodded, swallowing hard. "Wynafryd. I want you to know that if I could trade places with her—"
"Don't," she interrupted, turning to face him fully. "Don't dishonor her memory with thoughts of what couldn't be. Honor her by living, Jon Snow. By being the man she saw in you."
Tears pricked at Jon's eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. "How?" he asked, his voice barely audible. "How do I live with this?"
Wynafryd reached out and touched one of the ocean star blooms. "These flowers," she said, "they only bloom in the harshest part of winter. The gardeners say they shouldn't be able to survive here at all, but they do. They push through the cold and the dark, and they bloom anyway." She looked at him meaningfully. "That's how you live with it. You push through. You bloom anyway."
She gave the flower to his hands. Jon's hands began to shake, and he could feel heat rising beneath his skin. The ocean star flower trembled between his fingers as his grip tightened.
"Why?" he suddenly burst out, his voice echoing harshly against the glass walls. Several nearby servants tending to the plants quickly made themselves scarce. "Why are you being so kind about this?"
Wynafryd took a step back, startled by his sudden outburst, but her composed expression didn't waver.
"Jon—"
"No!" His voice cracked with emotion. "You should hate me! Your father should have thrown me in chains! I was right there!" The heat under his skin intensified, and he forced himself to take deep breaths, terrified of losing control. "I was right there, and I couldn't... I didn't..."
"Jon, listen—"
But the words kept pouring out, like a dam breaking. "Why aren't you blaming me? Why isn't anyone-"
"Punishing you?" Wynafryd cut in sharply, her voice carrying a steel that reminded him painfully of Wylla. "Is that what you're already doing, Jon Snow? Working yourself to exhaustion, refusing to eat, tormenting yourself with guilt?"
Jon froze, the ocean star flower crushed in his grip. Small drops of blood welled up where the stem's thorns had pierced his palm, but he barely noticed.
"You think I don't understand?" Wynafryd continued, stepping closer to him despite his visible agitation. "You think I don't see what you're doing? You want us to hate you because you hate yourself. You want us to punish you because you think it will somehow make this easier to bear."
The accuracy of her words struck him like a slap in the face. He staggered back a step, bumping into a potted plant behind him.
"My sister," Wynafryd said, her voice softening but maintaining its intensity, "would be furious with you right now. She would tell you that you're being an absolute fool, letting guilt eat you alive when you should be—"
"Living?" Jon interrupted bitterly. "Moving forward? How can I when every time I close my eyes, I see her? When I know that if I had been faster, stronger—"
"If you had been what?" Wynafryd demanded. "A god? A hero from the songs? You were one man against many, Jon Snow. One man who fought until he was nearly dead himself trying to reach her."
Jon's breathing came in sharp, ragged gasps. The crushed flower fell from his trembling fingers to the stone floor. "You don't understand. There was something I could have done. Something I should have known how to do." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, dancing dangerously close to his secret.
"Ah," Wynafryd said softly, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Now we come to it. You're not just angry that you couldn't save her. You're angry because you think you had some hidden power that could have saved her, if only you'd known about it sooner."
Jon's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. How could she possibly know?
But Wynafryd was already shaking her head. "We all do this, Jon. We all imagine that if we'd just known something more, done something different, we could have changed what happened. But it's a cruel trick our minds play on us. The past is written. The ink is dry."
The heat under Jon's skin began to subside, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "Then what am I supposed to do with this... this anger?"
Wynafryd bent down and picked up the crushed ocean star flower. "You take it, and you forge it into something useful. Something that would make her proud." She held out the damaged bloom to him. "My sister didn't love you because you were perfect, Jon Snow. She loved you because you were real. Don't dishonor that love by trying to turn yourself into something you're not – either a villain worthy of punishment or a hero who could have prevented the impossible."
Wynafryd watched as Jon delicately took the crushed flower, his fingers trembling as they brushed against hers. The tear that escaped down his cheek caught the morning light filtering through the glass panels.
"You know," she said softly, adjusting her sea-green silk skirts as she guided him to a stone bench among the winter roses, "Wylla used to tell me about your walks together in these gardens. How you'd listen to her wild dreams and schemes without judgment." She smiled faintly. "She said most men would try to change her, tame her, but you... you just let her be herself."
Jon stared at the damaged flower in his hands, its blue petals still beautiful despite being crushed. "She was untameable," he whispered. "Like a storm at sea."
"Yes, exactly like that," Wynafryd agreed, her voice warm with memory. "And tell me, Jon Snow, what happens to those who try to fight against a storm?"
He looked up at her, his mismatched eyes questioning.
"They drown," she answered her own question. "But those who learn to sail with the storm, to work with its power rather than against it – they survive. That's what you did with Wylla. You never tried to fight who she was."
She reached out and gently touched the crumpled petals in his hand. "And now you're trying to fight against the tide of grief by wrapping yourself in chains of guilt. But guilt isn't remembrance, Jon. Blame isn't devotion."
Jon's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Then what is?"
"Living fully, as she did. Taking all that love you have for her and letting it be a source of strength rather than shame." Wynafryd's eyes grew distant. "The day before... before it happened, she came to me, practically glowing. Do you know what she said?"
Jon shook his head, barely breathing.
"She said, 'Wyna, I've found someone who makes me feel like I can fly without leaving the ground.' That was you, Jon. You gave her that freedom, that joy." Wynafryd's voice grew firm. "And now you want to take those beautiful memories and turn them into chains? You want to transform her love into a prison of self-blame?"
The tear was joined by others now, falling freely down Jon's face. "I just... I keep thinking if I'd been different, if I'd been better..."
"Then you wouldn't have been the man she fell in love with," Wynafryd cut in. "You did everything you could. You fought for her against thirty men." She paused, making sure he was really listening. "That's who you are, Jon Snow. Not some perfect knight from the songs who could magically prevent all tragedy, but a real man who loved fiercely and fought bravely."
Jon looked down at the ocean star flower, its crushed form still holding beauty despite its damage. Like memories, he realized – they could be painful, but they still held something precious.
"The last thing she did," he said quietly, "was fight back. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her afraid."
"Of course she didn't," Wynafryd smiled through her own tears. "That was our Wylla. And she wouldn't want you to live in fear either – fear of your memories, fear of moving forward, fear of forgiveness." She took his free hand in both of hers. "You honor her best not by punishing yourself, but by living as boldly as she did. By keeping her spirit alive in how you face each day."
Something shifted in Jon's chest, like ice breaking up on a river. The guilt was still there, but it no longer felt like it was drowning him. Instead of chains, Wylla's memory began to feel more like wings – something that could lift him up rather than drag him down.
"I don't know if I know how to do that yet," he admitted.
"None of us do, at first," Wynafryd said gently. "But we learn. Day by day, memory by memory, we learn to carry our love without letting it crush us." She squeezed his hand. "And you don't have to do it alone. You're not the only one who loved her, who misses her."
Jon looked at her then, really looked, and saw his own grief mirrored in her eyes, but also something else – a determination to honor Wylla's memory through life, not death; through joy, not punishment.
"Thank you," he said softly, meaning it more deeply than he could express.
Wynafryd stood, smoothing her skirts. "Keep the flower," she said. "Let it remind you that even damaged things can still be beautiful. Even painful memories can still hold love." She turned to go, then paused. "And Jon? Wylla would be proud of you for this moment – for choosing to live, really live, instead of just survive."
As she walked away, Jon remained on the bench, holding the crushed but still beautiful ocean star flower. For the first time since that terrible day, his memories of Wylla felt less like a weight and more like a gift – precious and painful, but something to be cherished rather than feared.
Tomorrow
Horses stomped impatiently in the courtyard, their breath forming white clouds in the winter air. Jon stood beside his mount, adjusting the saddle straps with mechanical precision, trying not to think about how this would be the last time he'd smell the unique mixture of sea salt and spices that defined White Harbor.
Across the courtyard, his father stood with Lord Wyman Manderly. The usually jovial lord had lost his characteristic mirth along with his weight, his face drawn and aged beyond his years. Yet he managed a wan smile as he spoke with Lord Stark, his voice carrying faintly on the wind.
"...always welcome in White Harbor, Ned. You and yours."
Jon's attention drifted to Robb and Lady Wynafryd, standing near the castle steps. His brother held her hand, speaking in low tones that made her smile despite the sadness in her eyes. The sea-green of her dress reminded Jon painfully of another Manderly daughter who had favored bold colors.
For a heartbeat, he saw her there – Wylla, striding across the courtyard with her green-dyed hair streaming behind her, that fierce grin on her face that always preceded some adventure or another. His chest tightened as the memory of their first day together surfaced unbidden.
*"Come on, Jon Snow," she had laughed, pulling him down the winding stone steps to the wine cellar. "Don't tell me the brave warrior is afraid of a little darkness?"*
*"My father wouldn't approve," he'd protested weakly, even as he followed her.*
*"Good," she'd declared, her eyes glinting in the torchlight. "Neither would mine. That's what makes it fun."*
Jon blinked, and she was gone, leaving only the cold morning air and the sound of horses stamping their hooves.
Near the castle gates, Lord Stark was clasping forearms with Ser Wendel and Ser Wylis, the formal gesture softened by genuine affection. "We shall return in better times," Ned was saying.
Robb had finished his farewell to Lady Wynafryd, bending to kiss her hand with courtly grace. Jon noticed the slight blush that colored her cheeks, so similar to how her sister used to flush when...
He shook his head, turning back to his horse. Better to leave quietly, he thought. Better not to—
"Jon Snow."
The deep voice of Ser Wylis Manderly froze him in place. Jon turned slowly, bracing himself. He hadn't spoken with Wylla's father since that day. Every scenario he'd imagined during his sleepless nights had involved rage, accusations, perhaps even violence – all of which he felt he deserved.
What he didn't expect was for the big man to cross the distance between them in three quick strides and envelope him in a crushing embrace.
Jon stood rigid with shock as Ser Wylis held him. The lord's voice was thick with emotion when he spoke quietly near Jon's ear.
"Thank you," he said, the words seeming to catch in his throat. "Thank you for trying to protect my little girl until the end."
Jon's hands trembled at his sides. "My lord, I—"
"No, there is no need for any of that." He took a shuddering breath. "But more than that – thank you for loving her, Jon Snow. Wild and all. Thank you."
Jon felt tears burning behind his eyes as Wylis released him, keeping his massive hands on Jon's shoulders.
"She was always different," Wylis continued, his eyes glistening. "From the day she was born, she was a storm in human form. Her mother and I worried..." He swallowed hard. "We worried she'd never find someone who could appreciate that wildness in her. But you did."
"She made it easy," Jon whispered, his voice rough. "She was... she was the most alive person I'd ever met."
"Aye," Wylis agreed. He squeezed Jon's shoulders once more before letting go. "Carry that with you, Jon Snow. Not just the grief, but the joy she brought. The way she made the world brighter just by being in it."
From across the courtyard, Lord Stark called out that it was time to depart. Jon looked up at Wylis, struggling to find the right words.
"My lord, I... thank you. For not hating me."
"Hate you?" Wylis shook his head. "My daughter loved you, truly loved you. That makes you family, Jon Snow. And family..." He glanced at his own father and brother, at Wynafryd still standing by the steps. "Family helps each other carry the weight of loss."
Jon nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He mounted his horse, taking one last look at the castle that had briefly been home to so much happiness.
As the party rode out through the gates, Jon heard Wylis call out one last time: "Remember her smile, Jon Snow! Remember her laugh! That's how she'd want to live in your heart!"
The words followed him as they rode north, mixing with his memories of green hair and fearless grins, of wine-flavored kisses in dark cellars and wild schemes to help the common folk. And for the first time since her death, Jon found himself smiling, remembering not just how Wylla died, but how gloriously she had lived.
Robb rode up beside him as White Harbor disappeared behind them. "You alright?" he asked quietly.
Jon looked at his brother, then back at the road ahead. "No," he answered honestly. "But I think... I think I will be. Eventually."
Robb nodded, understanding in his eyes. They rode in companionable silence for a while before Robb spoke again.
"She would have made quite the good-sister," he said softly. "Terrifying, but in the best way."
Jon's small chuckle caught him by surprise. "Gods, can you imagine her at Winterfell? She'd have had the entire household involved in some mad scheme within a week."
"The old gods themselves wouldn't have been safe from her plans," Robb grinned.
If you want to Read 8 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/AMagicWriter40' in Google and Click the First LINK