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Eternity

298 AC

Jon was flying.

He had to blink several times as he tried to realize where exactly he was. But he couldn't tell. It was all moving so very fast for him.

The wind was rushing through his hair, violently parting it from his eyes as he sailed through the night sky. The charcoal black curls were blown away. Deep inside his chest, Jon had felt an immense rush of excitement.

Soon enough, he came through the clouds. Now he could finally see the Wall far below him, and even the lands beyond it. The Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs were mired in mist and snow, but Jon could see the green pines and the sharp grey mountainous rocks. He was home again.

This high up, he glanced further into the distance, passing by the Thenns and into the depths of the Lands of Always Winter. He watched in awe as shimmering green and blue lights began to erupt into the sky. They looked like long pearly snakes that stretched far beyond into the northern reaches of the Shivering Sea.

He saw the whole of Westeros itself. All the way from Bear Island and down to the Red Sands of Dorne. He saw his uncle Benjen eating in the Lord Commander's Tower writing tiredly at another letter. In Queenscrown, he saw Gerold sitting in contemplation over a fire while he was sharpening his sword. Jon saw his Mother and Father in Winterfell feasting in the great hall with his siblings. In Bear Island, he saw Rhaenys praying beneath a grinning heart tree. Far to the South, he saw Oberyn Martell and his daughters hide inside a barn while Lannister soldiers rode through a burning town in the hundreds. In Highgarden, Margaery was crying on her bed whilst gripping a letter in her hands.

Jon saw more things and shapes in the misty clouds. He saw a great brown bear standing bravely before the maw of an enormous oily Kraken before he was consumed by the dozens of gnawing tentacles. In Essos, he saw dragons being birthed from stone. And in the dark north, a great shadow had begun to spread towards the Wall.

Kraw! Jon looked to his right and saw a black shape flying at his side. He immediately singled it out as a raven. He knew them well enough from sending the damn birds away from Queenscrown more than he'd like.

Almost as if acknowledging his presence, the raven had turned its head to look at him. It was so very hard to see in the night sky, and Jon's only lamplight was the curtain of stars high above him. Those too were blocked out by the clouds.

But even then, Jon managed to see the two beady eyes stare back at him. Yet he narrowed his eyes further upon noting something strange on the raven…

The raven did not have two eyes. It had three. Just above where the usual two beads were, was the third laying like a cyclops eye right on its forehead. The third eye had also blinked and stared back at him.

"I've never been this high up before." Jon had said. "I can see everything…"

Seeing is good, is it not? The crow had said back to him. As if this were simply an everyday conversation.

"You can talk?" Jon asked.

Of course! The raven had cried, outraged at the implication it was just like any other bird. All ravens can talk, boy! You simply don't hear what they have to say.

Stupidly, Jon pressed further. "Why not?"

Because you do not know how to listen! It said back. Do you have any corn?

Jon had frowned at the demand but stuffed his hand into his pocket. When he took out his hand, he was amazed to find golden kernels in his palm. They fluttered in the air around him.

The crow had perched itself on his shoulder and ate the kernels.

"Am I dead?" He asked.

Are you? Who knows for sure?

"This has to be a dream," Jon told the crow.

Is it really? The crow had asked.

Jon Stark was already infuriated with the damnable bird on his shoulder. "Can you give me a straight answer?"

Depends. The crow said.

"Depends on what?"

If you are willing to learn.

"Learn what?"

How to fly.

"But I'm flying right now!" Jon yelled into the rushing air.

No. You are falling. The crow said back.

Sure enough, Jon had looked down to see just how far away he was from the ground. It seemed to be rising up towards him faster and faster. Giant spikes of ice splintered out of the ground, waiting to impale him and paint the snow red with his blood.

Where had they come from? It was almost as if they'd appeared out of nowhere. How in the Seven Hells was he going to avoid splattering on top of those?

You must choose, boy! Fly or die. The raven cried again.

Jon didn't even know what was going on. Neither did he understand very well why he was there in the first place. Hadn't he been in a battle? Was he dead? Or was he dreaming?

Did he even have a choice? He tried desperately to find a way out, but there was little that came to mind. His mind was blank on ideas to get himself out of this. He flailed his arms hopelessly, trying to flap them like wings.

There are different wings you can grow. The raven said. But you must make your choice. Quickly!

A gust of wind had blown into him then. Yet it felt and sounded like… almost like a voice on the breeze. It was calling to him. He listened more closely now.

"Jon!"

It wasn't the raven who had spoken. This voice was familiar… He knew it very well…

"Jon!" It was his uncle Starag! His voice was much clearer now. The more he listened to it, the more the ground seemed to stop rising towards him. Jon listened closer.

The raven began pecking at his forehead. Jon clutched at his head as he felt the hard beak knock against his skin. It seemed panicked. No! Do not listen! You must learn-

"JON!"

Jon Stark gasped awake.

He shuddered as he felt a cold sweat run down his skin. His vision was slightly blurry, but when he tried to rub his eyes, he nearly growled at the creaking ache in his muscles.

"Thank the Old Gods." He'd heard his uncle's voice whistle out from the other side of the room.

Jon blinked a few times more and realized he was back in the Waking Serpent. He felt the gentle sway of the ship as it coasted slowly from side to side.

There was something covering his nose and lips. He tasted the substance with his tongue and instantly felt his taste buds recoil. He shuddered once more, wondering just what in the Seven Hells had been put onto his lips.

"Here Jon," Marwyn had appeared above him. He was holding a cup of water. "Drink this."

Jon Stark realized that his throat was incredibly dry. Almost ravenously, he grabbed the cup of water from the Archmaester's hand and downed it in a series of gulps, completely ignoring the bitter and revolting taste of whatever poultice had been applied to his wounds.

The empty cup was soon taken from his hand. Another was put in its place. Jon drank it down much the same way. All notions of his strange dream had disappeared from his mind.

Once he was properly hydrated, Jon sat up on what he now realized was his uncle's bed. He was inside the Captain's Cabin.

"Did we win?" Jon asked bluntly, not realizing the silliness of the question until it was too late.

Starag had let out an amused chuckle. "We did, lad. Save a few casualties, we got out of it just fine." He said. "Even managed to take their loot as a tribute for our losses."

"How long has it been? How long was I out?"

"A day." His uncle answered. "You nearly had Arthur and I worried there. Had to argue with him for hours just to get him to keep running the ship. We were damn near close to sailing back home altogether."

Jon refocused his gaze on the details of the room. It seemed as if everything was reinvigorated with color. The candlelight seemed brighter and flushed with more orange and yellow. Even the brown pinewood looked as if it had been freshly cut. The cream-colored sheets of the bed were akin to boiled eggshell. Everything looked new.

He watched as a pair of large rough hands tinkered gently with the bandaged areas on his lips, chin, and nose. Marwyn was checking the wounds in case they had been opened again. Jon smiled when he saw a fresh scar across the Archmaester's brow.

"How did you get that?" Jon asked.

"How do you think?" Marwyn chuckled lightly. "I'm no good with a sword, unfortunately. But I happen to be quite handy with a staff."

"I'll second that." Starag had said from behind him. "Should've seen him knocking those fools off their feet. Clobbering them on the head. Never knew they taught Maesters how to do that stuff."

"They usually don't, but then again, I'm a rare exception." The Archmaester grinned as he stood up. His brown eyes locked onto Jon's then. "You got a nasty cut going from your nose right down to your chin. It shouldn't scar too badly, but I'm afraid it'll be permanent. You should be able to remove the bandages by the time we arrive in Lys." His grin faded into a pointed glare. "Provided you do not touch the wounds. Do I make myself clear?"

Jon had never heard such authority from a Maester's lips. Not even from Luwin, or even from Fjalar, the Maester who served him in Queenscrown. "Yes." He said.

"Good." Marwyn walked over to the nearby wash basin and cleaned his hands. "For now, you should focus on getting plenty of rest. You'll have more than enough time to be up and about once we're on solid ground. I'm sure both Starag and Arthur agree with me on this."

"Naturally." Starag had said. He loaded up his pipe and began to light it up. "You can sleep in here. I'll take a spot in the hull for the night."

Jon Stark had no complaints. Though a part of him would miss sleeping on the rather uncomfortable hammock beneath the top deck. It held a certain charm.

"Sounds plenty good to me," Marwyn said. "Rest, rest, and more rest. Your body heals faster when you're sleeping."

And with that final anecdote, the Archmaester had left the room and closed the door behind him. Leaving Jon alone with Starag.

His uncle had ceased his playful expression and stared at him with that searching lightning blue eye. He was sitting at a small round table, probably sized to fit two, perhaps three people. But for his mountainous uncle, it could only fit him.

Starag stood and picked up the chair he was sitting on. He walked closer to the bed and placed the chair by its side, sitting back down on it.

A part of Jon felt nervous all of the sudden. Like he was about to be interrogated by the terrifying blue eye.

"Your first battle." Starag's lips cracked into a grin. He slapped his thigh and let out another puff of smoke. "I'll be damned. I'd get you a strong drink, but we didn't bring any. But I'm sure there will be some strong alcohol in Lys."

Jon Stark felt all the tension leave his body. It was soon replaced by the realization that he had in fact survived his first battle. The personal pride that had followed proved immeasurable.

But soon enough, it was dampened by the images and memories of the screaming men all around him. Of the Manderly man-at-arms who'd taken an arrow in the chest and had died seconds later. He saw the pirate who he'd gutted in the stomach and he remembered how all the blood had drained from his face, the horror upon seeing the hole in his chest. It shouldn't have been there, but Jon had put it there. He'd killed a man. He'd killed three men. Three lives had been snuffed out forever because of him.

It didn't matter that they were trying to kill him, only that for some reason, the guilt of the act itself weighed heavily on his peace of mind. He certainly did not enjoy killing men. Not even if they wished ill upon him.

His uncle had noticed his change in mood. "How many?"

"Three," Jon answered. He shook his head, trying to get the pictures out of his mind. "The first two I cut open like they were fish… The third got me here." He said, pointing to his nose.

Starag nodded. More smoke had come out of his mouth. He almost looked like a fuming dragon. "Three's a good number." He said solemnly. "How did you feel about killing them?"

There was only one answer he could give. "I'd rather not kill if I can avoid it."

His uncle had smiled approvingly. "Good." He said. "But now you know what it's like to take a man's life."

Jon Stark was at a loss for words. He didn't feel particularly happy about having killed those men. Even though it was likely that if it were the other way around, they would gladly parade the deaths of both himself and the rest of his crew.

There was no glory to be found in it. No honor. Only the gritty and grisly reality that real battle was not at all like the training yard.

Sure, Arthur's teachings had certainly helped keep him alive, yet it was the distinct feeling he'd felt then. That if he made a single mistake, he would lose his life. His existence would be over. Done. Finished. No more Jon Stark.

"What is the point in killing?" He asked. "Why do we do it, if it only makes our lives worse?"

That lightning blue eye had searched him. It had peered deep into Jon's soul. He felt as if his uncle was practically reading his thoughts.

Starag sighed tiredly. He let out another puff of smoke. "I think I was… about fourteen when I first killed a man." His face was cold as he recalled the memory. "He was a deserter of the Night's Watch who had joined the wildlings. But before that… He'd been a fisherman on Bear Island."

Jon inched closer so as to listen better. "What did he do?"

His uncle waved his hand. "Poaching. He'd also been a decent enough hunter and had taken deer from the woods near Bear Keep. When investigated, he used his fishing career as a smoke screen." He sighed tiredly. "When I was fostered with the Starks, Lord Rickard would usually take his children with him out to see the deserters being executed. Sort of like what your father had done with you and your siblings. This time, however, he'd taken me along. We rode out at dawn, and came upon the deserter perhaps an hour later."

Starag seemed to watch the smoke with his lonely blue eye as he continued. "Your grandfather pushed Ice into my hands. He told me the man's story. Where he'd come from. What he'd done. Why he was there. And then he told me why I was there as well. I'll never forget what he said to me."

Jon was surprised that his own grandfather had allowed his ward to wield the ancestral blade of House Stark, if only for a single execution. "What did he say?"

His uncle smiled dimly. "He said, 'One day, Starag, you'll be commanding men who will follow you to their deaths. When that day comes, they must understand that you're the kind of man who can pass the sentence and swing the sword. That you are a man of your word. The Starks follow the Old Way, and if the Gods are good, so too shall the Mormonts. Do you understand?'"

Jon Stark ruminated on the words of his grandfather. It was true enough. Watching a man die was much different than making the killing blow yourself. One needed to be capable of setting aside their emotions at the moment. Jon had now realized that.

"Jon," His uncle had sat forward, looking dead steady into his eyes. "There are worse men roaming this world than those pirates. Worse men than the deserter I had removed from this earth. Men who are perfectly fine with taking your women and belongings and making their merry way with it. They will slay your children in the blink of an eye." His voice had hardened significantly. He had ceased to be Jon's uncle. Now he was the ice-cold Lord of Bear Island. "Imagine for a moment that Margaery was there. Would you hesitate to defend her? All because of your conscience? Would you feel guilty for protecting her from being raped and ravaged by a band of degenerate fools?"

"No." Jon had said instantly. A fire had started inside his heart. The remorse had quickly faded from his mind as he thought of Margaery's life in peril.

"Good." Starag had said. "Every day I take a man's life, I think of your sister. I think of your nephews and your niece. I think of my people and everything I've worked so hard to achieve. All of the things and accomplishments I spent decades to claw and scrape for could be gone," He snapped his fingers. "If I made just one mistake… If I didn't try harder than my opponent. Do you understand?"

Jon Stark had nodded. "I do."

"Excellent." Starag sat back in his chair and let more smoke fume out of his mouth. "You were lucky gutting that man with your knife. But you let him overpower you and damn near kill you. Were your woman and family on the line, would you allow some fool- no matter how much stronger, or tougher, or bigger- to get the better of you?"

"No," Jon said angrily.

"That's right!" Lord Mormont slammed his fist against the bedside table, shocking Jon into complacency. "In our line of work, there is little room for error. As lords, we are responsible for hundreds-thousands of other lives. Our families depend on us to make the right choices every single day. Most men would rather shy away from such a responsibility, but us?" Jon could almost see the crackling of lightning in his uncle's eye. "We are not them. We embrace the responsibility. We gladly take on the stress. We are absolutely professional in every single aspect of life. Because we need to be. Do you understand?"

Jon nodded his head. "Yes. I do."

The events of the last two days had all begun to come together. Arthur's words had also sprung to mind.

You must be absolutely mad. You must be mad enough to do the things they won't do. To change their beliefs and make them see a whole new world before their eyes. If they see you do the unthinkable, the unimaginable… Then they will believe in you.

Most men went their whole lives blundering about and making mistakes. They still worried about and hated the consequences of those mistakes, yet they still kept making the same errors again and again. Always wondered, but never saw what was really going on.

They hated stress and did all they could to get rid of it or pass it on to the next man in line. Lords who refused to take care of their people and instead gorged themselves on food and whores were one such example. They didn't know how to handle stress, or more likely, they didn't want to.

In the blink of an eye, Jon Stark had analyzed his whole life up until that point. He'd made hundreds of thousands of tiny mistakes, and he was suddenly annoyed that he'd never been bothered by it in the slightest. He immediately understood why Arthur and Starag ran laps or did extra exercise when they made mistakes in the training yard. Mistakes were amateur and unprofessional.

Professionalism would always win fights or political battles. Analyzing, creating a plan, and ruthlessly executing it without hesitation or emotional attachment was what won wars.

Both of his uncles were absolutely mad. They believed in professionalism so fervently that it had become a way of life for them. It was why they had become the most accomplished swordsmen in all of Westeros. The reason why out of all of the countless battles they had been in up until now, they were still alive.

Jon Stark had once thought that he'd stepped into manhood the day he heard the truth about who his parents really were… That he was no longer the starry-eyed, solemn boy who lived in Winterfell his whole life.

This was much larger than that. He'd been a complete amateur his whole life. And now he realized just how much of a fool he had been. He knew nothing. Had gone through nothing difficult- at least up until a few days ago.

What a fool he had been to utter those brave words back in his Father's Solar. Because I'm going too. If he couldn't even handle one bloody pirate, what hope did he have in Valyria?

Reality had shattered for him completely. His prior beliefs had been torn away from him. Leaving Jon Stark as nothing but a broken little boy, basking in the empty void.

Even then, he had managed to smile. What if he hadn't had such a realization? He'd still be a naïve fool going along until the Iron Throne was handed to him. And then… Then he'd really be torn apart. By the thousands of hands that would attempt to coerce and cajole him in their plays for power.

Unlikely. He snorted. There were professionals who he'd have to contend with in the Seven Kingdoms. Tywin Lannister was one of them. So were the Others. And potentially more unseen figures making moves across the board, hiding in the shadows.

"Now you see it." Starag managed a cruel smile. "How do you feel?"

Jon Stark gripped the bedsheets tight. Inside, he was boiling to the point where he half-wondered if his face was blushing red. He was done playing for survival. He wanted to win. To achieve ultimate victory.

The fire that had been lit in his heart was now a roaring bonfire, raging and sweltering with unimaginable heat. With Dragonfire itself.

"Angry. Very angry."