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Chapter 8 (The Call of the Water), Chapter 9 (Kuruk Hates Being Second), Chapter 10 (A Drop of Water), Chapter 11 (What is An Avatar), Chapter 12 (Jon Snow or Jon Sand), Chapter 13 (The Voice That Calls From Deep), and Chapter 14 (A Mother's Touch) are already available for Patrons.
The Kingsroad stretched before them like a great grey serpent, winding its way through the Northern landscape. Three days had passed since the Stark party departed Winterfell, and the familiar rolling hills and dense pine forests were gradually giving way to flatter terrain dotted with small farming settlements.
Jon rode near the middle of the procession, just behind Lord and Lady Stark but ahead of the baggage train. His grey gelding, Storm, maintained a steady pace, requiring little guidance from its rider. This left Jon free to observe the changing world around him—and to contemplate the strange journey that had led him here.
"You're quiet," Robb observed, guiding his horse alongside Jon's. "More than usual, I mean."
Jon shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About the tourney?" Robb grinned. "You should enter the melee. Father gave permission."
"Maybe," Jon replied noncommittally. In truth, the tourney occupied little of his thoughts compared to the mysterious abilities he was developing and the strange spirits that seemed determined to guide him.
"You're going to compete," Robb said with the easy confidence of an heir who rarely heard the word 'no.' "We'll show those southron knights what Northern swordsmen can do."
"White Harbor is hardly 'southron,'" Jon pointed out.
"Southron enough," Robb countered. "They worship the Seven and eat fish instead of proper meat."
Jon's lips quirked in a half-smile. "You sound like Arya now."
"Gods help me," Robb clutched at his chest in mock horror. "Next I'll be hiding frogs in Sansa's bedding and refusing to brush my hair."
A peal of laughter escaped Jon. "If you start collecting muddy 'treasures' in your pockets, I'll have no choice but to tell Lady Stark you've been possessed by Arya's spirit."
Robb lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't jest about such things where Old Nan might hear. She'll have the entire household searching for protective charms and evil spirits before supper."
"Speaking of our wild little sister," Robb nodded toward the front of the column where Arya was pestering Jory Cassel with an endless stream of questions, "I think she's more excited about this journey than anyone. She's been asking about boats since we left Winterfell."
"And Sansa?"
Robb rolled his eyes. "Dreaming of gallant knights who'll crown her Queen of Love and Beauty, no doubt. Though I'm not sure White Harbor's tourney will match the grand events in her songs."
"Perhaps she'll settle for a merchant's son with particularly clean fingernails," Jon offered dryly.
"Don't let her hear you say that," Robb warned with a chuckle. "She'd sooner marry her a dog than a man who couldn't trace his lineage back to the Age of Heroes."
Their conversation was interrupted by Theon Greyjoy, who rode up on Robb's other side, looking bored with the day's travel.
"Seven save me from another night sleeping in a tent," he complained, stretching dramatically. "My back feels like I've been cudgeled."
"Poor Theon," Robb teased. "Did the Ironborn forget how to sleep on hard ground?"
"The Ironborn sleep on ships," Theon retorted. "Which at least rock you to sleep instead of poking you with rocks and roots."
"Perhaps we should find you a nice puddle to nap in," Jon suggested, his face a perfect mask of earnestness. "For the familiar sensation."
Robb nearly choked trying to contain his laughter as Theon's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"I'd watch that tongue of yours, Snow," Theon warned. "Or you might find yourself sleeping with more than just rocks and roots tonight."
"We'll reach Lord Cerwyn's castle tomorrow," Jon said, deliberately changing the subject. "You'll have a proper bed then."
"And proper wine," Theon brightened considerably. "Lord Cerwyn's daughters must has grown into quite beauties. Perhaps she'll need a strong arm to escort her through the castle gardens."
"Your arm or your ego? There's scarcely room for both," Jon muttered, just loud enough for Robb to hear.
Theon regarded Jon with the slightly suspicious look he'd worn since their sparring match. "Looking forward to seeing your green-haired friend again, Snow?"
Jon kept his expression neutral, though he felt a flicker of warmth in his chest at the mention of Wylla. "Lady Wylla was kind to all of us."
"'Kind' isn't the word I'd use," Theon smirked. "That girl has a viper's tongue."
"Only with those who deserve it," Jon couldn't resist adding.
"And what exactly did I do to deserve her scorn?" Theon demanded, his pride clearly still smarting from their last encounter.
"Shall I recite the list chronologically or by degree of offense?" Jon asked innocently.
Robb laughed as Theon's face darkened. "He's got you there, Greyjoy. She did cut you down rather neatly."
"She's a child," Theon dismissed. "Playing at being clever."
"She's the same age as us," Robb pointed out.
"Speak for yourself," Theon replied haughtily. "I'm nearly a man grown."
"Then perhaps you should act like one," came a deeper voice from behind them.
The three boys turned to find Lord Stark had dropped back from the head of the column to ride alongside them. His stern face softened slightly with amusement at their startled expressions, like children caught stealing tarts from the kitchen.
"My lord," Theon said, immediately straightening in his saddle, his earlier swagger vanishing like morning mist.
"Father," Robb greeted more casually, though Jon noted how his brother's shoulders squared ever so slightly under their father's gaze. "We were just discussing White Harbor."
"So I heard," Lord Stark replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Among other matters of great importance, I'm sure."
Robb had the good grace to look sheepish, while Theon suddenly developed an intense interest in his horse's mane.
Lord Stark's grey eyes shifted to Jon. "Looking forward to seeing the city, Jon?"
"Yes, Father," Jon answered honestly. "I've never seen the sea before."
Something flickered across Lord Stark's features; it seemed like regret. "White Harbor is different from Winterfell in many ways. Busier. More... diverse." He seemed to choose his words carefully. "You'll find people there from across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. Some may look at you differently than the folk of Winterfell do."
His unusual purple eyes often drew curious glances even in the North, where Lord Stark had explained them away as a trait from Jon's unnamed mother. In a trading port like White Harbor, such distinctive coloring might attract more attention—unwanted attention, given the recent history of the realm and the fate of the last family known for purple eyes.
"I'll remember," Jon said quietly.
"And if anyone stares too long," Robb added with brotherly protectiveness, "they'll answer to us."
Lord Stark gave his heir a measured look. "There are better ways to handle curious glances than with fists, Robb."
"Of course, Father," Robb replied, though the gleam in his eye suggested he hadn't entirely abandoned the notion. "Diplomacy first. Violence as a last resort. Just as you've taught us."
"Indeed," Lord Stark said dryly. "Though I suspect my lessons on diplomacy haven't taken root quite as deeply as those on swordplay."
"We're works in progress, Father," Robb offered with a disarming smile that Jon had seen charm even the most stern-faced of servants.
Lord Stark shook his head, but there was fondness in the gesture. "That you are." His gaze encompassed them all. "Remember that you represent House Stark. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
"Even me, Lord Stark?" Theon asked, unable to resist the opportunity to remind them all of his separate standing.
"You've been raised under my roof for four years, Theon," Lord Stark replied evenly. "However you may feel about it, the North and its ways are part of you now. I expect you to honor both your houses with your behavior."
Theon's smirk faltered, replaced by something almost vulnerable before his ironborn mask slipped back into place. "As you say, my lord."
As Lord Stark nudged his horse forward to rejoin Lady Catelyn at the head of the column, Jon caught Theon studying him with an unreadable expression.
Arya suddenly appeared beside him, having apparently grown bored with Jory's company.
"Jon! Robb!" she called, her small face flushed with excitement. "Jory says we'll see the White Knife river soon. And that we'll follow it all the way to White Harbor!"
"That's right. White Harbor sits at the mouth of the White Knife, where it meets the Bite."
"Have you ever seen the ocean, Jon?" Arya asked, eyes wide.
"No, never," he admitted.
"Me neither. Sansa says it's like the sky but blue and wet, but that's stupid. The sky isn't blue when it rains."
Jon chuckled at her logic. "I'm sure we'll both see for ourselves soon enough."
Arya nodded emphatically. "And ships! Jory says some have a hundred oars and sails as big as Winterfell's Great Hall."
"The Ironborn ships are better," Theon interjected, unable to resist the opportunity to boast. "Faster and more maneuverable."
"Are there Ironborn ships in White Harbor?" Arya asked, momentarily distracted from her excitement.
"Not likely," Robb answered before Theon could. "The Iron Islands trade mainly with the Westerlands and the Reach."
"Oh." Arya looked disappointed for only a moment before her natural enthusiasm reasserted itself. "Well, I still want to see all the ships. And eat on one! Jory says there are floating taverns where you can eat fish right out of the sea."
"I'm sure Lord Manderly will arrange for us to tour the harbor," Robb assured her. "He seemed eager to show off his city."
.
.
That evening, they made camp in a small clearing just off the Kingsroad. Lord Stark's household guards efficiently erected tents and built cookfires, establishing a temporary settlement for the night. The children's tent—shared by Robb, Jon, Bran, and Rickon—stood near the center of the camp, with Sansa and Arya sharing a smaller tent nearby.
After a simple meal of salt beef, hard bread, and wild onions foraged by the hunters, most of the camp settled in for the night. Jon, however, found himself restless, his mind too active for sleep. He slipped from the tent, careful not to wake his brothers, and made his way to the edge of the camp.
A sentry nodded to him as he passed, but made no move to stop him. Jon was known to be responsible, and he stayed within sight of the camp's fires. He found a fallen log to sit on, just outside the circle of light cast by the nearest fire, and gazed up at the stars scattered across the Northern sky.
He extended his hand, palm up, and concentrated. After a moment's focus, a small flame appeared above his skin, flickering gently in the night breeze. Jon watched it dance, marveling at how natural it felt now, after weeks of practice.
Jon was sure there was more to this than just making a small light for him to see. Jon spend two hours behind the trees, trying to get better at his firebending, he didn't do much progress, outside of being able to control a more larger flame, but not much else.
Three more days of travel brought them to Castle Cerwyn, where Lord Medger welcomed the Stark party with proper Northern hospitality. They spent two nights there, enjoying hot baths, proper beds, and fresh food—luxuries that even Lady Stark seemed to appreciate after days on the road.
From Castle Cerwyn, the Kingsroad led them along the eastern bank of the White Knife. The river grew wider and more vigorous as they traveled south, swollen with spring melt from the Northern mountains. Jon found himself inexplicably drawn to the rushing water, often pausing by the riverbank when the party stopped to rest.
During one such stop, as the party watered their horses and stretched their legs, Jon stood at the river's edge, watching the current swirl around submerged rocks. Something about the water's movement seemed almost... inviting. Without conscious thought, he extended his hand toward the river, wondering if he could feel the same connection he'd developed with fire and air.
"It's so fast," Arya's voice broke his concentration as she appeared beside him. "Do you think anyone could swim in it?"
Jon dropped his hand quickly, turning to his sister with a forced smile. "Not without being swept downstream very quickly."
"Hmm," Arya hummed thoughtfully, eyeing the current with a speculative gaze that made Jon nervous.
"Don't even think about it," he warned. "Lady Stark would have both our hides if you fell in."
"I wasn't going to jump in," Arya protested, though her expression suggested the thought had indeed crossed her mind. "I was just wondering."
"Wonder from a distance," Jon advised, ruffling her hair affectionately. "The White Knife has claimed many lives over the centuries."
Arya sighed dramatically but moved back from the water's edge. "What were you doing, anyway? You looked like you were trying to grab something in the water."
Jon hesitated, unsure how to explain the strange pull he'd felt. "Just... feeling the spray," he said finally. "It's cooler near the water."
"I suppose," Arya agreed, losing interest. "Bran says we're only two days from White Harbor now. Is that true?"
"If the weather holds," Jon confirmed. The Stark party had made good time, favored by clear skies and dry roads. "We'll likely see the city tomorrow afternoon."
Arya bounced on her toes with excitement. "I can't wait to see Wylla again. Do you think her hair is still green?"
Jon smiled at his sister's enthusiasm. "I imagine so. It's not the sort of thing that changes quickly."
"Maybe I could dye just the ends of my hair. Mother might not notice right away."
"I wouldn't count on that," Jon advised, imagining Lady Stark's reaction to a green-haired daughter. "Lady Stark notices everything."
"Not everything," Arya said with a mischievous grin. "She still hasn't found where I hid those frogs."
Jon laughed despite himself. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"
"What does 'incorrigible' mean?" Arya asked, wrinkling her nose at the unfamiliar word.
"It means Septa Mordane is going to have grey hair before you're twelve," Jon replied, guiding his sister back toward the waiting horses as Lord Stark signaled for the party to resume their journey.
As they mounted up, Jon cast one last glance at the river. For just a moment, he thought he saw a reflection in the water—not his own, but that of a bearded man in strange blue clothing. The image was gone in an instant, leaving Jon to wonder if it had been real or simply his imagination.
Either way, the pull of the water remained, growing stronger with each mile they traveled toward the sea.
The first glimpse of White Harbor came late the following day, as the Stark party crested a hill overlooking the mouth of the White Knife. Jon drew in a sharp breath at the sight spreading before them—a city of white stone buildings clustered around a natural harbor, ships of all sizes dotting the blue expanse beyond.
"The ocean," Arya whispered, her usual exuberance temporarily subdued by the majesty of the view. "It's so... big."
Jon could only nod in agreement. No description could have prepared him for the sheer vastness of the sea, stretching to the horizon and beyond.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Robb said, guiding his horse alongside Jon's. "Though not as large as King's Landing, from what Father says."
"It's beautiful," Jon replied softly.
The city itself stood out starkly against the landscape—its buildings constructed of white stone rather than the grey granite of Winterfell. Protective walls surrounded the settlement, though they appeared more ceremonial than defensive compared to Winterfell's massive fortifications. In the center of the city, atop a hill, stood what could only be New Castle, seat of House Manderly.
As they descended toward the city gates, banners appeared along the road—the merman of House Manderly alternating with the direwolf of House Stark. Clearly, Lord Manderly had posted lookouts to alert him of their approach.
Indeed, as they neared the city, a welcoming party emerged to meet them—knights and men-at-arms in the green and blue colors of House Manderly, led by a portly man Jon recognized as Ser Wendel, Lord Manderly's younger son.
"Lord Stark!" Ser Wendel called jovially as he approached. "Welcome to White Harbor! My father awaits you in the New Castle, but he sent me to escort you through the city."
"Ser Wendel," Lord Stark greeted with a formal nod. "House Stark is grateful for your hospitality."
After introductions were completed, the enlarged procession made its way through the city gates. Jon found himself surrounded by sights, sounds, and smells utterly foreign to his Northern upbringing. The streets were cobbled rather than packed earth, the buildings taller and more ornate than Winterfell's functional structures. Everywhere he looked, people bustled about their business—not just the stern, practical Northerners he knew, but sailors with darkened skin and strange accents, merchants in colorful clothing, and smallfolk whose attire suggested influences from across the Narrow Sea.
"Keep up, Snow," Theon called back to him, noticing Jon's distraction. "You're gawking like a country bumpkin."
Jon straightened in his saddle, embarrassed to realize he had indeed been staring open-mouthed at a group of sailors unloading exotic-looking crates from a cart.
"Leave him be," Robb defended. "It's his first time seeing a city."
"It's all our first time seeing White Harbor," Arya pointed out, her own head swiveling continuously to take in everything around them.
Their path took them through what Ser Wendel identified as Fishfoot Yard, a large square dominated by a fountain shaped like a merman with a horn.
From Fishfoot Yard, they climbed the hill toward New Castle, passing the Sept of the Snows—an impressive structure that drew admiring gasps from Sansa and curious looks from the younger children, who had never seen a sept before.
New Castle itself stood at the summit, commanding a view of both city and sea. Unlike the stark functionality of Winterfell, the Manderly seat displayed a more southron influence—towers topped with green copper domes, large windows of leaded glass, and ornate carvings decorating its white stone walls.
A great cheer went up as they rode through the castle gates and into the main courtyard. There, Lord Wyman Manderly awaited them, his massive form supported by an equally substantial chair that four servants had carried out from the great hall. Beside him stood his granddaughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, both dressed in the finest Manderly colors—though Wylla's green hair provided an additional splash of vibrant color that no dress could match.
"Lord Stark!" Lord Manderly's booming voice carried across the courtyard as servants rushed to help the travelers dismount. "Lady Stark! Welcome, welcome to White Harbor!"
The formal greetings proceeded according to protocol—Lord Stark and Lady Stark first, then Robb as heir, followed by the other Stark children in order of age. Jon hung back, as was proper for his status, waiting for the highborn welcome to conclude before he would quietly make his way to whatever accommodations had been arranged for him—likely with the household guards rather than family.
To his surprise, after greeting Rickon, Lord Manderly's gaze sought him out specifically. "And young Jon Snow!" the large lord called, gesturing for Jon to approach. "Come forward, lad! Any son of Lord Stark's is welcome in my hall!"
Jon moved forward hesitantly, aware of Lady Stark's carefully neutral expression and the curious glances from various Manderly household members. He bowed formally to Lord Manderly. "Thank you for your hospitality, my lord."
"Nonsense, boy! After hearing how you showed my Wylla around Winterfell, you're practically family!" Lord Manderly laughed, seemingly oblivious to the social awkwardness his singling out of Jon had created.
Jon dared a glance at Wylla, who stood slightly behind her grandfather. She was fighting to keep a solemn expression, but her eyes danced with mischief as she met his gaze. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a suppressed smile.
"My granddaughter speaks very highly of you," Lord Manderly continued. "Says you know more about Winterfell's history than the master himself!"
"I... I simply enjoy reading the old chronicles, my lord," Jon replied, uncomfortable with the exaggeration but touched that Wylla had spoken well of him to her powerful grandfather.
"A scholarly bent! Excellent, excellent." Lord Manderly clapped his hands together. "You children must be exhausted from your journey. Servants will show you to your chambers. We feast tonight in honor of House Stark's arrival!"
As the formal welcome concluded and the party began to disperse, Jon found himself momentarily alone, uncertain where he should go. A servant would surely direct him eventually, but for now, he stood awkwardly in the courtyard, watching as his siblings were led toward the main keep.
"Don't look so lost, Snow," came a familiar voice at his elbow. "Anyone would think you'd never been welcomed to a castle before."
Jon turned to find Wylla beside him, her green hair now plaited in an elaborate braid interwoven with silver threads that caught the afternoon light.
"Lady Wylla," he greeted, unable to suppress a smile. "Your hair is still green, I see."
"Did you expect me to change it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "I told you I'm keeping it until I find something more outrageous."
"Arya will be delighted," Jon replied. "She's been talking about asking you how you dye it since we left Winterfell."
Wylla grinned. "I knew I liked her." She glanced around to ensure they weren't overheard, then added in a lower voice, "Are you wearing it? The pendant?"
Jon's hand moved automatically to his chest, where the silver merman hung beneath his doublet. "Yes," he admitted. "Though I keep it hidden."
"Good," Wylla said, looking pleased. "I was worried you might have left it behind."
"I wouldn't do that," Jon said, perhaps too earnestly. "It was a gift."
A slight flush colored Wylla's cheeks. "Well. Good." She seemed about to say more when a servant approached, bowing respectfully.
"Master Snow? If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your chambers."
Jon blinked in surprise. "My chambers?"
"Yes, sir. In the east wing, with the other young men of House Stark."
Jon had expected to be housed with the guards or household staff. To be given chambers in the family wing was unexpected—and would likely not please Lady Stark.
"Grandfather's orders," Wylla explained, noting his confusion. "All of Lord Stark's children are to be housed together, regardless of their... surnames."
The deliberate way she said this made it clear the arrangement had been her doing, or at least her suggestion. Jon felt a rush of gratitude toward both Wylla and her grandfather, even as he worried about the potential awkwardness it might create.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Wylla nodded, understanding the depth of meaning behind those two words. "Rest and refresh yourself. The feast begins at sunset." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "And yes, you'll be at the high table again. I've already arranged it."
Before Jon could respond, she whirled away in a swirl of green and blue fabric, leaving him to follow the patient servant to his unexpected accommodations.
The chambers assigned to Jon were modest compared to what the trueborn Stark children likely received, but far grander than anything he had expected. A comfortable bed with fresh linens, a small writing desk by the window, a copper tub that servants were already filling with steaming water, and a wardrobe containing his few belongings, already unpacked by efficient hands.
Most impressive was the view—a wide window overlooking the harbor, where ships of all sizes bobbed at anchor, their masts forming a forest of wooden spires against the blue expanse of the Bite. Beyond, the open sea stretched to the horizon, its surface glittering in the late afternoon sunlight.
Jon stood at the window for a long moment, mesmerized by the play of light on water. For the first time in his life, Jon didn't feel like a bastard.
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