The Three Headed Titan

Visions of Death

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Chapter 2 (A Cut with a Knife), Chapter 3 (New Found Strength), Chapter 4 (A Beast in the Dark), Chapter 5 (The White Harbor), Chapter 6 (A Dance with Wylla), Chapter 7 (One Heart, Two People), and Chapter 8 (The Titan's Grief) are already available for Patrons.

Jon's practice sword whistled through the crisp morning air, cutting invisible enemies as steam rose from his skin despite the cold. The heart tree watched silently, its carved face neither approving nor condemning his presence. He preferred training here in the early hours, away from the judging eyes of others, particularly Lady Stark's.

His sword stopped mid-swing as last year's memories invaded his thoughts unbidden. The sound of coughing had filled the halls of Winterfell, servants moving like ghosts through corridors with cloths pressed to their faces. But what haunted him most was Robb's feverish face, usually robust cheeks hollowed by illness.

"You never get sick," Arya had whispered to him that evening, perched on his bed like a little bird. "Never ever. I've watched."

"Everyone gets sick sometimes, little sister," he had replied, though even then he'd known it wasn't true – at least not for him.

"No, you don't. I've seen Robb sick before, and Sansa, and even Father once. But never you." Her gray eyes, so like his own, had sparkled with conviction. "It's like magic."

The memory shifted to later that same week, when Lady Stark had cornered him in the library:

' "Why are you not ill?" she had demanded, her usually composed face twisted with worry and suspicion. "Everyone who has been near my son has fallen ill. Everyone except you."

Jon had stepped back, clutching the book he'd been reading. "My lady, I-"

"You spend every day with him, training in the yard, sharing meals, yet you stand here healthy while my son burns with fever."

"Theon is well too," Jon had protested, hating how defensive he sounded. "He hasn't fallen ill either."

Lady Stark's laugh had been bitter, cutting. "Theon Greyjoy gains nothing if my son dies. But you... if Robb were to die, what might a bastard hope to gain?" '

The accusation had hit him worse than the slap many years ago. Even now, months later, practicing alone in the godswood, Jon's hands tightened on his practice sword until his knuckles went white.

"How dare you?" he had whispered then, trembling with rage and hurt. "How dare you think I would ever-"

"Enough."

His father's voice had cut through the library like ice. Jon had never seen Lord Stark so angry, his gray eyes hard as winter frost as he regarded his wife.

"Father, I-" Jon had started.

"Leave us, Jon."

He had fled, but not before hearing his father's words to Lady Stark: "You will never speak to him like that again. Never."

"My love," Lady Stark had begun, but Lord Stark's voice had grown colder still.

"He is my blood. He would sooner cut off his own hand than harm Robb. You know this, Cat. You know it."

Back in the present, Jon's practice sword struck the ground with enough force to send snow flying. A raven cawed somewhere above, making him start.

"I thought I'd find you here," came Arya's voice behind him. She was bundled in furs, her hair wild as always. "You always come here when you're brooding."