The Three Headed Titan

Hello, AMagicWriter here. I'm happy to publish the first Chapter of The Three Headed Titan

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The following 8 chapters are already available to Patrons.

Chapter 7 (One Heart, Two People), Chapter 8 (The Titan's Grief), 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), and Chapter 14 (Giants in the Snow) are already available for Patrons.

The door opened, and Wylla entered with that smile that made Jon's chest tighten, and for a moment, he forgot about giants and healing wounds. 

"I thought you might want a tour of the castle," she said, her voice light and inviting. She tilted her head slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," he replied too quickly, his tone betraying a hint of nervousness. "Just... tired from the journey."

"Tired from slaying monster bears, you mean," she teased, crossing the room to stand by the window. She appeared completely at ease, seemingly unbothered by being alone in a young man's chamber. "Though I suspect there's more to that story than what was said in the hall."

Jon's hand tingled where the cut had been, a phantom sensation that made him clench his fist. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you looked when Father asked how you did it," she observed, turning to face him. Her expression was serious now. "Like you weren't quite sure yourself."

"My lady—" he began, unsure of how to explain.

"Wylla," she corrected gently. "I think saving half a dozen men from a giant bear earns you the right to use my name, don't you?"

"Wylla," he said softly, and her smile widened. The name felt familiar on his tongue, as if he'd spoken it many times before. "I... there are things I don't understand about what happened."

"Such as?" she prompted, taking a step closer.

"Such as how a bastard boy managed to throw a spear hard enough to kill a monster," he admitted, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice.

She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you're more than just a bastard boy."

"I'm not—" he started, but the words caught in his throat.

"You're not what? Special? Important?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was sincerity beneath her teasing tone. "Too late for that, I'm afraid. You've already made quite an impression on White Harbor. The mysterious Jon Snow, who slays monsters and blushes when pretty girls talk to him."

"I don't—" he began to protest, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He realized he was, in fact, blushing.

She laughed softly. "See? Absolutely hopeless. Come on, I'll show you the best parts of the castle, including all the secret passages my sister thinks I don't know about."

"Should you be showing those to a stranger?" he asked, both intrigued and cautious.

"Are you planning to use them for nefarious purposes?" she countered, a playful challenge in her gaze.

"No, but—"

"Then it's fine." She reached out and grabbed his hand—the one that had been cut—and he felt a warmth spread from her touch. She tugged him toward the door with surprising strength. "Unless you'd rather stay here and brood?"

Jon let himself be pulled along, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I don't brood," he said defensively.

"Of course not," she teased as they stepped into the corridor. "You just stare intensely into the middle distance while thinking deep, meaningful thoughts."

"That's... that's not the same thing," he argued, though he knew she was jesting.

"It absolutely is." She peeked around a corner, ensuring the path was clear. "Coast is clear. First stop: the old tower where they say the mermaid queen used to sing to passing ships."

As she led him through the castle, Jon found himself relaxing despite everything. The halls of White Harbor were a marvel. Servants bustled about, but they paid little mind to the two youths weaving through passages.

They climbed a winding staircase that spiraled upward, the steps worn smooth by generations of feet. The walls here were lined with faded murals of underwater kingdoms, colors softened by time.

"Up here," Wylla beckoned, her voice echoing softly. She pushed open a heavy wooden door that creaked in protest.

They emerged onto a rooftop terrace enclosed by a low stone wall. The view took Jon's breath away. The city of White Harbor sprawled below, its white buildings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Beyond, the vast expanse of the sea stretched to the horizon, waves shimmering like molten silver.

"This is incredible," Jon murmured, stepping forward.

"I thought you'd like it," Wylla said, leaning against the wall beside him. "It's my favorite place in the whole castle. Hardly anyone comes up here anymore."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching gulls wheel overhead and ships glide into harbor like toy boats. The distant sound of sailors' shanties and dockworkers' shouts drifted up to them, mingling with the cry of seabirds.

"You're doing it again," Wylla noted, her tone lighter.

"Doing what?" he asked, glancing at her.

"Brooding," she said with a soft smile. "What's really on your mind, Jon Snow?"

He hesitated, but there was something about her—an openness—that invited honesty. "I think," he began slowly, "that I'm changing into something. And I'm not sure what."

She turned to face him fully, her expression thoughtful. "Good something or bad something?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's just... ever since the bear, things have felt different. I feel different."

"Different how?" she pressed gently.

He struggled to put it into words. "Stronger, faster maybe. Like there's something inside me that's waking up."

Instead of looking skeptical, she nodded. "Sometimes we grow in ways we don't expect, especially after facing something challenging."

"It's more than that," he said, his gaze drifting back to the sea. "There are things happening that I can't explain."

Wylla was quiet for a moment. "My mother used to say that the world is full of mysteries, and not all of them need to be solved immediately. Sometimes, we just need to live them."

He looked at her, surprised. "You don't think I'm... strange?"

"Oh, you're definitely strange," she teased lightly, then her expression softened. "But in a good way. Besides, normal is overrated."

He chuckled softly. "Perhaps you're right."

"Of course I am," she declared confidently. "Now, come on. I want to show you where my grandfather hides his best wines."

"Is that proper for a lady to know?" he asked with mock seriousness.

"Proper?" She grinned mischievously. "I'm the girl with green hair, Jon Snow. Proper sailed away long ago."

As they continued their exploration through the labyrinthine corridors of White Harbor, the sun began its descent. The light filtered through stained-glass windows depicting epic sea voyages and legendary creatures of the deep. Jon found himself captivated not just by the castle's beauty but by the effortless way Wylla navigated. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, these changes—whatever they were—didn't have to be faced alone.

Even if he did have to dance at the feast.

"You're thinking about the dancing again, aren't you?" Wylla asked, her eyes flickering with amusement as she glanced sidelong at him.

"How did you—"

"You have a special brooding face reserved just for dancing," she interrupted, her lips curving into a teasing smile. "It's quite adorable, actually."

"I'm not adorable," he protested, attempting to muster a dignified tone, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"No? Tell that to your blush," she retorted, her laughter light and melodious. Before he could respond, she grasped his hand and tugged him down another corridor. "Now, about those wines..."

They descended a narrow spiral staircase that seemed to wind endlessly into the depths of the castle. The air grew cooler, tinged with the earthy scent of aged wood and stone. Lanterns hung intermittently along the walls, their flickering flames casting elongated shadows.

"The cellars?" Jon inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Not just any cellars," Wylla replied mysteriously. "The oldest ones. Built when White Harbor was first constructed. They say the walls here remember."

"Remember what?"

"Whispers," she said softly, her voice echoing slightly. "Secrets, promises, perhaps even dreams."

He chuckled. "Sounds like something Old Nan would say."

"Maybe she knows more than people give her credit for," Wylla suggested. "Now, watch your step. Some of these stones are loose."

They entered a vast chamber lined with rows upon rows of wine barrels and dusty bottles. The ceiling arched overhead, supported by thick pillars. In the center stood a large, ornate table scattered with maps and nautical instruments.

"Impressive," Jon remarked, running a finger over a compass etched with runes he didn't recognize.

Wylla selected a bottle from a nearby rack, examining its label. "Ah, here we are. Arbor gold from the best vintage." She pulled the cork effortlessly and poured the golden liquid into two crystal glasses.

"Should we be doing this?" Jon asked, accepting the glass but eyeing it warily. "What if someone finds out?"

She leaned against the table, swirling her wine thoughtfully. "Sometimes it's good to break the rules a little. Live in the moment."

He took a tentative sip, the rich flavor surprising him. "Fair enough."

They clinked their glasses gently, the sound echoing softly. "To new experiences," she toasted.

"To not tripping over my own feet tonight," he added wryly.

She laughed. "I'll drink to that." After a moment, she regarded him thoughtfully. "You know, you don't have to be nervous about the feast."

"I'm not nervous," he lied, avoiding her gaze. "Just... cautious."

"You're a terrible liar, Jon Snow."

He sighed, conceding the point. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous. It's just not something I'm used to."

"Dancing? Or being the center of attention?"

"Both, I suppose."

She set her glass down and moved closer, her expression gentle. "Would it help if I showed you some steps now? A private lesson before the grand performance?"

He hesitated. "I wouldn't want to impose."

"Consider it a fair trade for the bear story you still owe me." Without waiting for his agreement, she took his hand and led him to an open space between the barrels. "Now, place your hand here," she guided his hand to her waist, "and hold my other hand like this."

He followed her instructions, acutely aware of the warmth of her waist beneath his palm and the softness of her hand in his. "Like this?"

"Perfect," she affirmed. "Now, it's a simple pattern. Step forward with your left foot as I step back, then to the side..."

They moved slowly at first, the only sound the distant drip of water and the soft rustle of their clothing. Gradually, Jon began to relax, the steps becoming more fluid.

"See? You're a natural," Wylla encouraged.

"Hardly," he scoffed lightly, though a smile played on his lips.

They continued to dance. Jon found himself forgetting his earlier apprehensions. Here, in this hidden cellar with Wylla, the weight of his worries seemed lighter.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of secret passages, hidden rooms, and tales about the castle's storied past. Wylla showed him the old armory filled with antique weapons, a gallery of paintings depicting the Manderly lineage, and a secluded courtyard where a solitary weirwood tree grew—a rarity so far south.

"How did a weirwood come to be here?" Jon asked, marveling at the white bark and red leaves.

"No one knows for certain," she replied. "Some say it's as old as the castle itself. Others believe it sprouted from a seed carried by the wind. I like to think it chose to be here."

They sat beneath the tree, and if Wylla noticed how he occasionally flexed his hand or glanced nervously at the harbor visible beyond the castle walls, she didn't mention it.

"Tell me about Winterfell," she prompted, leaning back against the smooth trunk of the weirwood. "Is it true there are hot springs that keep the castle warm even in the depths of winter?"

He nodded. "Yes. The walls absorb the heat, making it more bearable when the snows come."

"Sounds cozy," she mused. "And the godswood there—it's said to be immense."

"It is," he confirmed. "It's one of my favorite places. Quiet, peaceful. A good place to think."

"Or brood," she teased lightly.

He chuckled. "Perhaps."

As the shadows grew longer, she suddenly stood and extended her hand. "Come on. There's one last place I want to show you before we have to prepare for the feast."

They made their way to one of White Harbor's highest towers. The climb was steep, but the reward was a panoramic view that stole Jon's breath. The sea stretched out endlessly, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange, pink, and violet. The city below bustled with evening activity, lanterns flickering to life like stars fallen to earth.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Isn't it?" Wylla agreed softly. "I come up here when I need to clear my head."

He glanced at her; the sun made her seem even more beautiful. "Thank you for today," he said earnestly. "I haven't... felt this at ease in a long time."

She turned to meet his gaze. "You don't have to carry your burdens alone, Jon."

He looked away, the weight of his secrets pressing against the moment. "It's complicated."

"It doesn't have to be," she insisted gently. "Sometimes sharing makes the load lighter."

He considered her words, a part of him yearning to confide in someone. But another part, the part that had been taught to guard his emotions, held back. "Perhaps," he allowed.

She seemed to sense his hesitation and didn't press further. Instead, she leaned on the parapet, her green braids cascading over her shoulder. "You know, the feast tonight isn't just about formality. It's a celebration. A chance to forget our troubles, if only for a while."

He smiled faintly. "Even if I have to dance?"

She laughed, the sound blending with the distant crash of waves against the harbor walls. "Especially then."

As they began their descent, Wylla suddenly paused on one of the steps. "Oh, I almost forgot." She reached into a small pouch at her waist and pulled out a simple silver pin with a wolf head. "I want to give this to you."

He stared at it in surprise. "Why?"

"Consider it a token of friendship," she said, a hint of shyness creeping into her demeanor. "I noticed you don't wear any sigils. I thought you might like one."

He accepted the pin reverently. "Thank you. It's... it's wonderful."

She brushed off his gratitude with a casual wave. "It's nothing, really. Just don't lose it."

"I won't," he promised, affixing it to his tunic.

Later

Jon adjusted his doublet for the hundredth time, examining his reflection in the polished metal surface that served as a mirror. The clothing was finer than anything he'd worn at Winterfell - dark grey with silver threading.

"If you keep fussing with it," Robb's voice came from the doorway, "you'll wear holes in it before you even reach the feast."

Jon turned to find his brother leaning against the doorframe, already dressed in Stark colors. "How do I look?"

"Like a proper lordling," Robb grinned. "Though perhaps one who's about to face execution rather than a feast."

"Very funny. At least I don't look like I've been struck by lightning every time Wynafryd glances my way."

The comment hit its mark - Robb's ears turned pink. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No? Shall we count how many times you've walked into things while watching her? I heard you nearly fell into the harbor when she gave you a tour of the city."

"I was admiring the ships."

"Of course. And I suppose Lady Wynafryd just happened to be standing near those ships?"

Robb straightened his own doublet. "I'm perfectly capable of dancing with any lady present."

"Like you danced with Sansa?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "I believe her toes are still recovering."

"That was different. I was nervous."

"And you're not nervous now?"

Before Robb could retort, a knock interrupted them. A Manderly guard in sea-green armor stood at attention.

"My lords, the feast is beginning. Lord Stark sent me to escort you."

They followed the guard through the winding corridors of White Harbor. The sounds of music and laughter grew louder as they approached the Great Hall.

"Remember," Robb whispered, "try not to step on any feet. Especially those attached to green-haired ladies."

"Remember to watch where you're walking instead of staring at the elder Lady Manderly."

The Great Hall was transformed. Hundreds of candles cast a warm glow over the carved wooden walls, making the sea creatures seem to dance in the flickering light. At the high table, Lord Stark sat in conversation with Lord Manderly, their heads bent together in discussion. Wylla and Wynafryd sat nearby, both dressed in shades of blue and green that reminded Jon of the sea.

When Wylla caught his eye, she smiled that smile that made his stomach flip.

Jon hesitated at the base of the dais, his gaze flickering between the high table and the gathered guests in the great hall. The aroma of roasted fish and fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the murmur of conversation and bursts of laughter.

"Perhaps I should sit with the—" Jon began.

"If you say 'with the squires,' I will personally drag you up these steps," Robb interrupted, his tone half-serious. "Besides, look how disappointed Lady Wylla would be."

Following Robb's gaze, Jon saw Wylla seated at the high table, her vibrant green braids adorned with tiny silver seashells. She was patting the empty seat beside her, a playful yet expression on her face. The arch of her eyebrow and the slight tilt of her head made it clear that refusal wasn't an option.

"The things I do for you," Jon muttered to Robb as they began ascending the steps to the dais. His own attire—a deep blue tunic with understated embroidery—suddenly felt inadequate under the scrutiny of so many noble eyes.

"For me? Brother, I believe you're doing this entirely for yourself," Robb chuckled, giving Jon a light nudge. "And for a certain lady's green braids."

Jon felt heat creep up his neck but managed a retort. "And what's your excuse? I saw you practicing your smile in the mirror earlier."

Before Robb could respond, they reached the table where Lord Wyman Manderly sat at its center, his massive frame clad in opulent robes of sea-green velvet. His face was flushed from wine and mirth, his booming laughter echoing as he conversed with Lord Stark.

"Ah, the young heroes arrive!" Wyman boomed, his eyes twinkling with genuine delight. He raised a jeweled goblet in their direction. "Come, sit! We were just discussing your bear hunt. Quite the adventure!"

Jon found himself guided to the seat beside Wylla, while Robb took the space near Lady Wynafryd, who greeted him with a demure smile. The sisters exchanged a knowing glance.

"I was just telling Grandfather about our tour of the castle," Wylla said as Jon settled into his seat. The table before them was laden with an array of dishes—succulent roast pheasant, buttered vegetables, and exotic fruits from the southern regions. "Though I left out the part about the wine cellar."

"How kind of you," Jon replied dryly, reaching for a goblet of spiced wine. The warmth of the cup was reassuring in his hands.

"I thought so," she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. Her gown, a shimmering teal that matched her eyes, accentuated the natural grace with which she moved. "You look very handsome tonight, by the way. Almost like you're not terrified of dancing at all."

"I'm not terrified," Jon protested, though his grip on the goblet tightened involuntarily.

"No?" Wylla arched an eyebrow, her gaze dropping pointedly to his hands. "Then why are your knuckles white on that poor cup?"

Realizing his tension, Jon consciously loosened his grip, flexing his fingers. "I'm simply... appreciating the craftsmanship," he said, attempting nonchalance.

"Of course." She leaned closer, the soft scent of lavender and sea air enveloping him. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't worry, I won't let you make a fool of yourself. Much."

"Your kindness knows no bounds, my lady," he replied, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Wylla," she corrected automatically, her eyes meeting his with a hint of sincerity. "And yes, I know. I'm practically a saint."

Further down the table, Robb was engaged in an animated conversation with Wynafryd. She listened attentively, a soft blush coloring her cheeks as Robb spoke. Jon caught his brother's eye and smirked, raising his goblet slightly in a silent toast.

"Your brother seems quite taken with my sister," Wylla observed, following Jon's gaze. She delicately picked at her meal, her fingers adorned with simple yet elegant rings.

"Is it that obvious?" Jon asked, cutting into a slice of roasted duck.

"Only to everyone with eyes." She chuckled softly. "Earlier today, he walked straight into a pillar because she smiled at him."

Jon laughed. "And here I thought he was admiring the architecture."

Wylla's laugh was bright and uninhibited, drawing the attention of nearby guests. She seemed entirely unfazed by the glances, her focus solely on Jon. "You Starks are terrible liars. It's rather refreshing, actually."

"We have other qualities to recommend us," Jon countered, a playful glint in his eye.

"Oh? Like what?"

"Well, we're quite good at killing abnormally large bears," he said, taking a sip of his wine.

"Ah yes, the bear." Her expression turned thoughtful. She glanced around subtly before continuing in a quieter tone. "Speaking of which... did you ever figure out how you managed that throw?"

Jon's hand tingled slightly at the memory, a phantom echo of the strange energy he'd felt. "Not exactly," he admitted, his gaze shifting to the flickering candle flame.

"Mysterious." She grinned, her eyes alight with intrigue. "I like mysteries."

Before Jon could respond, Lord Manderly rose from his seat, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din of the hall. "Music!" he proclaimed, clapping his hands. "Let's have some dancing! A feast isn't complete without a bit of merriment!"

Jon felt a jolt of anxiety as all eyes turned toward the center of the hall where musicians were assembling. The soft strains of a lute and the lilting notes of a flute began to weave together.

"Don't worry," Wylla whispered, placing her hand gently over his. Her touch was cool and calming. "Just follow my lead and try not to think too much."

"That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" he said, managing a faint smile.

"Has it steered you wrong yet?" she replied, her eyes meeting his with reassuring confidence.

He took a steadying breath. "Fair point."

As she led him toward the dance floor, Jon caught sight of Robb. His brother was being similarly escorted by Wynafryd, his earlier composure replaced with eager anticipation. Robb gave Jon an encouraging nod.

"Ready?" Wylla asked, positioning his hands—one resting lightly on her waist, the other clasped in hers.

"No," Jon confessed honestly, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Perfect." She smiled warmly. "Just keep your eyes on me."

The music swelled, and they began to move. The initial steps were tentative, Jon focusing intently on matching her movements and keeping rhythm with the music. But Wylla was an excellent partner, her guidance subtle yet effective. She anticipated his hesitations, adjusting seamlessly to keep them in harmony.

"See?" she said after guiding him through a particularly intricate turn. "You're not hopeless after all."

"High praise indeed," he replied, a genuine smile breaking through his earlier apprehension.

"Oh, I have higher praise ready," she teased, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "But you'll have to earn it."

"And how exactly would I do that?" he asked, his confidence growing with each successful step.

She leaned in slightly, her voice just above a whisper. "I'm sure you'll think of something. You did slay a bear, after all."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not a chance, Jon Snow. Not a chance." Her laughter was soft, and he found it contagious.

As they spun across the floor, Jon caught glimpses of Robb and Wynafryd. His brother had yet to step on any feet, which was a marked improvement.

"Your brother's doing well," Wylla commented.

"He's motivated."

"Aren't we all?" She smiled up at him, and Jon forgot about everything else. Right now, there was just this: music, movement, and a green-haired lady who made him feel like maybe, just maybe, being a bastard wasn't the most important thing about him.

As the music changed to a slower tune, Wylla moved closer. "See? You can dance after all."

"I had a good teacher."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." She glanced at their siblings. "Though perhaps not as far as your brother seems to be getting."

Jon followed her gaze to see Robb and Wynafryd standing rather closer than the dance strictly required.

"Should we be concerned?" he asked.

"About them? No. About the fact that your father and my grandfather are watching them with entirely too much interest? Possibly."

Jon looked at the high table to find both lords indeed watching the young couples with poorly concealed satisfaction.

"Were we just set up?" he asked.

"Obviously." Wylla seemed entirely unbothered by this. "Though I can't say I mind. Do you?"

Jon looked down at her - at her mischievous smile and bright eyes and those green braids he'd grown inexplicably fond of.

"No," he said honestly. "I don't mind at all."

"Good." She rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed. "Because I have plans for you, Jon Snow."

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably. But you'll enjoy it anyway."

The rhythmic thump of Lord Manderly's goblet against the oak table silenced the hall faster than any shout could have. The sudden quiet was almost startling, the musicians trailing off mid-note, conversations dying mid-sentence. Even the serving girls froze, wine pitchers hovering above half-filled cups.

Lord Wyman Manderly's face was flushed from wine and good cheer as he pushed himself to his feet, his massive frame causing the high table to creak in protest.

"My honored guests!" his voice boomed across the hall. "Before we continue our festivities, I would have us all raise our cups to young Jon Snow!"

Jon felt his stomach drop. He'd been having such a pleasant evening he'd almost forgotten about—

"This brave lad," Lord Manderly continued, gesturing expansively, "saved Lord Stark, Lord Robb and twenty soldiers from a bear of monstrous proportions! A beast twice the size of any I've seen in thirty years!"

Jon could feel the heat rising in his face as hundreds of eyes turned toward him. Wylla squeezed his hand sympathetically, though he could see she was fighting back a smile.

"The greatest soldier had his spear knocked aside like a twig! But young Snow here..." Lord Manderly paused for dramatic effect, "stepped forward with nothing but steel and courage, facing down the beast that had already wounded five men!"

"Grandfather does love his storytelling," Wylla whispered. 

"Please stop helping," Jon muttered, wishing desperately that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

The hall erupted in applause and cheers. Jon could see Robb grinning broadly, while Lord Stark wore an expression that seemed caught between pride and exasperation.

"And now!" Lord Manderly's voice rose above the acclaim, "I present to you all the proof of young Snow's valor! Bring forth the bear!"

The great doors at the end of the hall swung open with theatrical timing. Ten servants, straining under the weight, carried in an enormous platter. Upon it lay the bear, now expertly butchered and roasted, garnished with herbs and root vegetables. Steam still rose from the meat, filling the hall with a rich, savory aroma.

Gasps echoed through the crowd. Even those who hadn't seen the live bear could now appreciate its sheer size from the amount of meat presented. The platter was so large it took up nearly a quarter of the high table when the servants finally managed to set it down.

Lord Stark's expression had shifted fully to resignation. He caught Jon's eye and gave a small shake of his head, as if to say, "I should have known this was coming."

"Come, Jon Snow!" Lord Manderly beckoned. "Take your place at the high table! The hero's portion awaits!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Jon whispered to Wylla.

"Nonsense," she said cheerfully, giving him a gentle push forward. "Though I do hope you're hungry. Grandfather's going to expect you to eat at least three portions to prove your manliness or some such nonsense."

As Jon reluctantly made his way to the high table, he could hear Lord Manderly launching into a more detailed version of the story, complete with dramatic gestures that threatened to knock over several wine cups.

"...and then the bear reared up, tall as a giant! But did young Snow falter? No! Quick as lightning, he..."

Lord Stark leaned over as Jon took his seat. "Well, son," he said quietly, amusement lurking in his voice, "I suppose this is what comes of trying to be modest about your deeds. Lord Manderly does so love a good story."

"I'm never leaving Winterfell ever again," Jon declared under his breath.

From her place back in the crowd, Wylla caught his eye and mimed a bear's clawing motion, grinning widely. Despite his embarrassment, Jon felt his lips twitch into a smile.

Lord Manderly was still going strong: "...and the way he wielded that sword! Like something out of the age of heroes! Why, I haven't seen such bravery since..."

It was going to be a very long night.

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