Jon has been behaving oddly. Robb would of course know all about it. They were brothers after all, despite what mother would insist. Father had allowed them to take their lessons together, both martial and academic. They had played together, sweated in the training yards together, and scratched their heads in Maester Luwin's lessons together. If this is being half-brothers, Robb couldn't imagine what it'd feel like if Jon was his full brother. Would it have caused him even more worry when Jon had taken ill when they were two moons back? Would it have hurt even more when he recovered and was constantly awkward around him, but talked comfortably with the servants? Perhaps. But Robb would forgive Jon for it. It was evident from some of their conversations that his brother clearly wasn't in his right mind after the fever.
"I see. So you're twe- two and ten?"
"Yes? As you should already know."
"And your hair is red?"
"Are you quite alright, Jon?"
"And Bran? His hair is red too?!" Jon had started to sound frantic now.
"Yes. Perhaps you should see Maester Luwin."
"There's no time for that! Why couldn't your hair be dark like Richar- I mean like father?!"
Robb didn't know who Richard was, but decided that he didn't like the guy. It's not Robb's fault what color his hair was. Besides, he liked his red hair! This focus on his hair color, and its comparison to father's hair lessened his concern for Jon. Which heightened once again when he saw his mother a ways away, and she had clearly heard the last part of their conversation.
Eventually, Jon did settle down from his fever induced mania. He had seemed to have forgotten things like swordplay, horse riding and even his way around the castle. Though as Maester Luwin had assured him, he seems to have remembered everything the next day he woke up.
Well, not everything. His swordplay had clearly been affected, Robb thought as he watched Theon press Jon back using his height, reach and greater strength to his advantage. Jon would have lost before the fever too, Theon is six and ten after all, a man grown, but he would have certainly made him pay for it. Robb would internally acknowledge that Jon was a better swordsman than him, and it was a little sad to see him become so much more skittish.
"What's the matter, Snow? Did the sickness make your sword go floppy?" Jeered Theon to the laughter of some guards.
"Whatever. My sword's good enough for Asha." Jon tried weakly.
"That's quite enough for you two! Jon, you need to stop flinching at every attack. I know you still have your skill. Go practice against the dummy till you have recovered your confidence in them. Theon, do not gloat unless you have defeated someone your own size." Interrupted Ser Rodrick.
Robb agreed with his assessment. He just had one question.
"Who's Asha?"
"The fuck would I know" was Theon's equally baffled reply.
I sulked my way to the training dummy, cursing Theon, Ser Rodrick, Winterfell and this continent in general where hitting each other with sticks is a necessary life skill and doing so with overly large sticks astride horses galloping towards each other is considered the epitome of manliness.
The straw dummy was a little worn out. The logs underneath the straw were clearly visible, but I was probably lucky to get one to myself at all in the middle of the day. Getting into position, focusing on the opponent, and slashing at where I imagined an opening to be, I kept practicing all the attacks Jon had been taught. My fundamentals, I had to admit, were top notch. It's just too bad that I've been having trouble applying them in a spar.
While my new instincts to just dodge and get away kept interrupting my flow of the fight, I could feel that there was more to it than that. Every time I saw the training sword, I felt my body start to move on its own. But the phenomenon felt so unnatural that I couldn't help but jerk myself to a stop. Then again, nothing about this situation is really natural, is it? I need to find an opportunity where I could let that impulse loose. Fighting with Theon couldn't be it though. If it doesn't work and I miss a block, he could end up breaking my face. Which obviously can't be allowed. My face is damn gorgeous. Similarly, I can't try it against Robb. If that impulse is dangerous, I might end up injuring him. Well, nothing to it. I'll have to ask Ser Rodrick to spar with me if I find him unoccupied, or a good natured guard if that fails.
With the lesson over, we move to clean ourselves and I take the free time to visit the Sept. Since I awoke in this world, I had taken to exploring what I could of this world's religions. Mornings in the Godswood when I could run into father, and evenings in the Sept when I would likely not run into Lady Stark. The Sept is a relatively humble structure, circular from the outside with a dome on top, and seven sided from the inside with seven masks, one on each wall. I admittedly liked the building. It's purpose was very andal, but the austere furnishing somehow made it decidedly Northern.
"Back again, Jon?" asked Septon Chayle, a man that personified the Sept he maintained, as Northern as any other man in the castle. "That I am, Septon" I replied with a smile, that his cheerful demeanor would always provoke. Hard to believe that he would be killed by Theon of all people. Was it defending one of the servants from getting raped? Was it trying to protect Bran and Rickon? I couldn't recall anymore. I braced myself on one of the walls, to fight off the sudden nausea at the thought of almost everyone Jon knew getting murdered in the next 5 years. That's such a scary thought. I had lost people in my previous life. Some to old age, some to plague, but never to murder. Treachery used to mean a friend promising to hang out, then cancel. Now it means attacking your home, hurting your family and raping your house help. I look up at Septon Chayle's sound of concern, but face only the half-human half shrouded face of the Stranger and scamper away from the mask. Fitting.
"Are you alright, son?" inquired the Septon.
"Of course. Must have gotten dizzy after training. I think I will rest in my room." I lied, but did make my way to my room. A cozy little space smaller than Robb's. Perhaps a point of contention for the previous Jon, but both rooms sucked compared to a modern apartment. So it mattered little to me. I laid down on my bed, and tried to figure out my plans once more.
To go north, you must journey south, to reach the west you must go east.
It made little sense when Quaithe said it to Daenerys. Perhaps it still didn't. If I go North, what would I accomplish? Try to replicate Jon's exploits. I'm much more likely to just die. Perhaps not even killed by a wildling. Just get lost in the snow, and starve to death.
If I go South to play the game of thrones? Who will fight for my claim? The Velaryons? The Tyrell? The Martell? Even if someone does, what would it accomplish? Add one more king to the war? There were plenty of those in the original timeline.
To go north, you must journey south
What will I find up North? Would a hundred year old blind man touch my face and recognize the resemblance to relatives he hasn't seen in over 60 years and was unlikely to be in the habit of touching their face for no reason? Heh, "unlikely" and "relatives". Will he have a convenient Valyrian sword and dragon egg waiting for me that he, for some reason, never offered to Rhaegar?
Or is there a dragon egg awaiting me in the South? In the ruins of Summerhall that no one's yet managed to discover?
Kill the boy within you.
Kill the boy and let the man be born.
Right. No more thinking of dragons. If I find one, I find one. But I can't waste the little I have looking for them.
To go north, you must journey south
If I am to defeat the Night King, I must go south to insure a united Westeros. But it goes both ways, does it not. To go south, I must ensure that the Watch will hold for however long it takes me to… to do whatever I need to do in the South. They need to fight the wildling army, treat with Mance and not implode in mutiny while doing all that. Yeah, no. That's not going to happen. I might as well expect the Southerners to peacefully decide on Robert's succession.
No. We need a strong Night's Watch. One filled with people who know the truth of who they fight. Who would not abandon their vows the moment they think they can get away with it. Who would not be as averse to treating with the freefolk.
to reach the west you must go east.
The east? There are people in the East who could be trustworthy, or at least obedient. Who might be willing to look for a new employer. Thousands of them in fact. With a thousand loyal black brothers, I could choose whoever I want as the Lord Commander, deal with the freefolk however I want. That sounds a little like cheating, but that's the least of the issues with my plans. I have no way to free the slaves, or to bring them back to Westeros, or even to get to Slaver's Bay. What can I even do?
Perhaps we can fly. All of us. How will we ever know unless we leap from some tall tower? No man ever truly knows what he can do unless he dares to leap.
Thanks, Euron. Maybe I'll take a leap off of the Wall when I've failed at stopping the Long Night and hope to wake up in Harry Potter. For now though, I haven't failed yet.
I get up and make my way to the library. Perhaps learning a little Valyrian would help if I intend to make my way to Essos. And see Septon Chayle again. Why exactly is the Septon taking care of the library anyway?
Early next morning I make my way to the Godswood before breaking my fast. It's still empty, so I would likely not see my father here today. I go to the Heart Tree and move to kneel, then stop to keep my breeches from getting wet, a lesson I had learnt from my previous visits, and decide to sit on a rock instead.
"Pssh! Wizard bro." I whispered to no reply. Just like the previous few times I had done so. If my long lost kin and fellow Valyrian-First Men hybrid is listening, he has certainly not given a sign that he did so. I focused on the bleeding eyes of the face before me, and thought of the red eyes of Brynden Rivers. What is he up to anyway? A man who has lived over 120 years, 40 of those after his presumed death? Learning more magic? Fighting a shadow war against the Others? Making friends with the forest elves? Approaching little children and calling them to his little hovel in the woods with fantastical promises?
Damn. Is that the reason he has been ignoring me? Because I am too old for him? That red eyed child predator. I'll take his long dark sword and ram it into him. Hmm. Dark Sister.
"Pssh! Shiera Seastar called. She says you're a loser." I tried once more, and then left for breakfast.
Maybe I am doing this whole religion thing wrong.
I head back to the library to continue learning High Valyrian. My progress from yesterday was abysmal as the idea of a library staying open after sunset was ludicrous for the Westerosi. The costs of candles too high to be made available for all but the rulers of the castle. I had tried to look for the books I remembered from canon. One about dragons called Unnatural Histories and the one about the lineages of noble families. But the Starks kept nothing that they didn't actually need. And the North had little fondness for dragons and no more interest in the likeness of Lannisters and Baratheons.
"This book is practically falling apart. Is this version of the language even spoken anymore."
"Hmm. Sure. It's not like we've had reason to learn any of the bastard valyrian versions. But, yes. Knowing High Valyrian can let you ar least keep up with the language in most of the free cities." Replied Septon Chayle.
"How do you know that?" I enquired.
"Perhaps I've had an adventurous youth traveling through Essos."
I looked at him unconvinced.
"Or perhaps I've met visitors from the free cities to the White Harbor."
"Woah. You've lived in White Harbor?"
"Hmm. Where did you think I learnt about the Faith of the Seven and took my oaths as a Septon?"
"In White Harbor. Of course! What was it like living in a city?" I exclaimed, book forgotten.
"It was more busy than in Wintertown. Why are you interested in learning Valyrian all of a sudden?" He asked the question I had been expecting him to since yesterday.
"It shouldn't hurt to learn a new skill. I do need to make something of myself one day."
"And do you intend to do it in Essos?" He asked dubiously.
"I could. They don't look down on bastards, I heard."
"No, I suppose not. But they do look down on foreigners."
Xenophobia. Of course.
I learnt what I could, but made my way to the training yards soon enough. Fortunately, I got there just in time to find Ser Rodrick unoccupied. And in a good enough mood that he agreed to some one on one instruction. We stood against each other, with training swords in hand as he waited for me to attack. I obliged and struck at him several times, each strike getting parried if not deflected.
"Hit me, boy. Not my sword. Even when you attack, you're defending."
Right. I got too focused on awaiting that feeling again. If it comes, it comes. Till then I just need to apply Jon's swordsman skills. I went on the offense for real and actually made my trainer focus on his footwork in earnest. Soon enough I overextended, and could see Ser Rodrick's sword coming for my armpit of all places. But so did the long awaited impulse that I knew might leave me with a hit to my unguarded armpit. But I had already decided to trust in my opponent and dove into the impulse.
And then, nothing happened. For a moment I cursed my susceptibility and braced for the hit. But the hit doesn't come. In fact, nothing seems to be moving. My head moves, as if through molasses, to look at Ser Rodrick looking determined and then towards the sword coming at me as if in slow motion. I make a quick decision to not dodge as I had initially thought to, but move towards my opponent instead.
The world resumed its normal speed. I had gotten within my opponent's guard. His sword struck the padding on my ribs and our closeness reduced the impact of the strike. And his surprise allowed my own sword the time to reach his throat, standing vertically from between our chests.
"Yes. That's.. that's more like it. Don't shy away from attacks." He recovered quickly.
"Than.. thanks." I replied, feeling tired all of a sudden and needing time to figure out what just happened. No such luck though. Ser Rodrick decided that walking away with a win would be bad for my development. Which left finding out more about my new skill through trial by fire. But I couldn't deny its effectiveness.
Bullet time. That seems to be my new ability. A faster perception of time when under duress for a short duration. Though its activation is not entirely a conscious decision. An inherent knowledge that the ability is available in response to some threat perception, but up to me to choose when to activate, until of course, it's not available anymore. Too many times in my spar did I activate the skill only to find the extra time to observe wasted, as there was nothing new to see, no clever decision to make in the nick of the time that I wouldn't have made anyway.
Regardless, Ser Rodrick allows me leave from further sparring and focuses on Robb, Theon and the other men at arms. I have too little energy to not take a break slump bonelessly against a wall.