The first sense Jon regained was his sight. It did him no good however. The pitch black he awoke to was absolute. His eyes couldn't decide whether he was in a place so deep that no light could reach it or if he had just completely lost the use of his eyes after using what remained of his drained strength to escape the collapsed Sept. As his mind slowly shifted from insentience to awareness, his other senses cataloged what sensations they could. His skin told him that he was naked as the day he had been born, his back resting upon a smooth surface that was unlike stone or steel or soil or any solid material he had ever felt. His ears told him that the only disturbance in the still air came from the shifting of his body into an upright position.
As he braced his hands against the ground and bent his knees to push himself upright, Jon's ears picked up on something else. Faint murmurs. Countless whispers that came from everywhere around him. And yet, there was nothing moving. Not even the smallest shifting of the wind to indicate anyone was even alive in this empty place, let alone speaking.
Being effectively trapped and blind, Jon wasn't sure what he should do. He cautiously stood up; the thundering of his heartbeat behind his ribs almost threatening to drown out the whispers that came from every direction and no direction at once.
On instinct, his right hand pressed to his chest to try and calm the racing organ. Without warning, a light began to shine under his hand where it touched his chest. Jon had only a second to look at his hand in astonishment before someone spoke as though directly in front of him.
"Very good young one." It said: its voice sounding like a highborn-woman of Lady Catelyn's age.
Startled by the sudden intrusion, Jon's hand dropped as he quickly moved backward. He looked everywhere he could think. His right side. Left side. Even up where he assumed some sort of sky must be. Still the impenetrable darkness shrouded his eyes. Jon looked to where his hand told him it was. He slowly flexed the fingers, clenching them into a fist before relaxing them into an open palm. Slowly his hand came back into contact with his chest above his beating heart.
The light shone again and the voice returned.
"Are you prepared to listen now?" The voice asked, its tone speaking of amusement at his startled reaction.
Jon knew there was no mistaking it now. This was the presence in the flames. The other voices speaking in concert just below the surface of it, the shifting quality and echo of it even as it attempted to steady itself. This was the one that had told him how to save Arya.
And the voice was coming from the light in his chest.
"That would depend on what you wish to say." John answered, heartbeat slowing as he remembered what the voice had done to help him with the ritual that had tired him so much prior to waking up in this place.
"You have done what was asked of you." The woman's voice said. "Now, you face three trials. A trial of the mind. A trial of the heart. And a trial of the soul." There was a pause before she continued. Her words carried a tone of warning and sadness, much as Jon imagined a parent sending their child off to battle yet unsure if they would return unharmed might.
"Be wary young one. This realm is shaped by forces both external and internal. If you pass the tests, your spirit and your power will be stronger for it. But if you fail like so many others before you, you will die."
Jon felt a chill in his heart despite the light emanating from it beneath his hand. He was in a realm distinctly not mortal. With strange powers he hadn't truly acknowledged until three days ago let alone accepted. While being told by an unseeable unknowable voice that unless he passed unknown tests he had been thrust into without any warning at all that he would die.
'Yes, I think these odds certainly qualify as bad ones.' He thought as he tried to get his rising sense of helplessness under control.
"Remember this: the tests are of your own devising." The voice continued. "Use that as you may. And good luck." It concluded as its voice began to fade out.
Jon called aloud: "Wait! How do I find my way?!" If he was going to be facing death, he at least wanted to be able to see it coming.
An old crone's cackling answered him. "How do you use a burning torch to light a darkened one?" was the only response he received before the presence was gone.
Jon called for minutes on end, his glowing hand remaining over his heart in a stubborn attempt to contact the being that had left him stranded. But after so much futile effort, he had to conclude that he was on his own.
So he paced, hand remaining over his heart as the faint rays of light that shone past his fingers served to very faintly outline a foggy ground that for all appearances seemed to be smoke made solid. As he glanced at where he was walking, Jon pondered the voice's question.
'Use a burning torch to light a darkened one? That's simple: all you have to do is hold the fire to the other torch and it…will…catch.'
Jon stopped where he stood. Somehow, he had to transfer the fire beneath his chest into his hand. A simple solution complicated by his being entirely how to go about doing so. He tried to move his hand around his chest to catch his hand. He tried to push his hand into his chest only to feel pressure on his ribs instead of light filling his grip. So then he decided to try thinking of it. He pictured the fire underneath his fingers. He pictured its crackling warmth. He pictured the pretty oranges and yellow lights that caused shadows to dance upon the walls. His hand felt warmer, but the light faded as soon as he tried to take his hand off his chest.
The appendage was warmed as though he had thawed it after a day of snowball fighting with Robb in the courtyard, but that was hardly going to help him to see. Jon tried again, this time dredging up every memory of fire that he could. The chamber maids stoking the coals in the dying embers. The flickers of ash and spark that leapt for a brief moment into the air before snuffing out mid-flight. The smell of cooking and burned meat. The painful feeling of holding his hands too close to the fire. Of falling asleep in front of the fire and waking when his skin felt like it was slowly blistering under the heat. Everything he could think of, he did as he placed his hand back on his chest.
Without warning, there was a flare on the back of his hand. As Jon's left hand instinctively raised to shield his eyes, he paused. Slowly, he lowered the unencumbered appendage. There before his disbelieving eyes was his hand. But where once the light had shone underneath his chest, now it was an open crackling flame on the back of his hand. He the aflame right hand away from his naked chest.
As it was allowed space, the flame seemed devour the surrounding still air to grow until it encompassed his entire hand. Jon watched it awestruck as he experimentally flexed his fingers, watching the shimmers of heat and tongues of flame as they shifted and moved with his every twitch.
Despite being naked and unarmed, Jon felt warmer. He had this fire that came from within him. And come what may, he would face it with the clarity of light. He looked down at his feet, noticing that there was a path of deep red underneath him. Jon looked into the distance, his hand thrust out in front of him to illuminate his way. Wherever the light of the flame touched, Jon could see the path lit up.
'Every journey begins with a single step. Jon recalled Maester Luwin telling him once. Now that he had found the path, it was up to him to follow it. Jon took a deep breath and started walking.
The further he walked, the earthier and more familiar the ground became. As Jon continued, he looked around, seeing that as he moved, it was like he was walking through an underground passageway now, the darkness visibly constricting around him. But still he walked on, the path clear in the light he cast if he would but follow it. Soon his hand touched upon a wooden door. With nary a moment's hesitation Jon pushed it open and discovered that he had entered the training area of Winterfell's courtyard. He spun around in place, seeing that the great keep appeared to be deserted. He looked down at himself, noticing that he was now in his leather training clothes, a wooden sword at his hip.
"Something catch your attention brother?" Robb's voice inquired behind him.
Jon spun around in surprise. There before him was Robb. But it was not the Robb he remembered. This one was older. He was taller and more solid, his clothes that of a high lord, his red hair and full beard contrasting the streaks of grey that had begun lining them. This was not Robb the heir. This was Robb the lord. Just as Jon had always imagined him.
"Robb? What-" Jon began to ask before he noticed Robb had both hands atop the pommel of Ice, the Stark family's ancestral Valeryian longsword, which was stuck in the ground tip first in front of him.
"As I seem to recall, it was your challenge to me for the right of Lordship that brought us to this impasse." His brother said, warmth in his tone but a great resignation in his eyes.
"Challenge of what?!" Jon exclaimed in shock. All his life it had been made abundantly clear to him that Robb was the rightful heir to Winterfell. That as Lord Stark's eldest trueborn son, the inheritance of the title automatically flowed to him by the laws of gods and men alike. Why should he have challenged that?
"I wish I could convince you to give up this selfish quest Jon. But I cannot abide the possibility of a usurper. You understand I hope." Robb continued, hands now gripping the hilt as he inexorably drew Ice out of the frost covered ground. Winterfell was silent as a grave but for Jon's heavy breathing and the sound of Robb's first cautious but sure steps toward his half-brother.
Jon couldn't believe this was happening. He couldn't fight his brother, he couldn't! He hadn't wanted the title of Lord of Winterfell. Why was this to be his test?
'Liar.' His traitorous mind whispered, remembering their childish game of titles and swordplay. Remembering when he tried to claim Lord of Winterfell. Rembering Robb bluntly telling him he wasn't allowed to because he was a bastard.
Jon didn't have time to get lost in his memories however. He obeyed the combat instincts screaming at him as he desperately rolled to the right as Robb's overhead cleave with the valeryian steel blade impacted the ground he had been standing not a moment before with enough force to leave a gouge in it.
'How did he get so fast?!' Jon thought incredulously, leaping backward as his brother followed up with a thrust. He was already panting hard, feeling hyper-aware that he only had his leather practice clothes while Robb had what appeared to be partial plate underneath his furred cape as well as chain mail adorning him.
But he already knew why Robb was still faster despite the handicap of better armor. Robb was bigger. Robb was older. Robb had a longer reach. And Robb was showing absolutely no hesitation even as his mouth spoke the words: "For what it's worth, I will always love you brother." It was a hollow comfort.
Jon kept back-peddling, rolling, spinning. Anything to keep his momentum and prevent Robb from hitting him with the sword. He had seen Ice behead a man many a time before. He doubted his few layers of boiled leather and cloth padding would stand in the way of that if he stood still for too long.
The first shock of the fight came when Jon decided that he may as well use the wooden sword for however long it may last. As he drew it from the scabbard, he remembered his burning hand and wished with all his heart he could use his power now. The sword lit up as though it had been soaked in oil. Robb stopped briefly, hesitation making him instinctively look at the bright light that had flared so suddenly near Jon.
Jon quickly capitalized on his brother's distraction, the flames leaving a brief glowing trail in the air as he swung it toward Robb's left leg. Robb used Ice to parry the sword by bringing it down to the ground, the tip hitting the dirt before it reached the Lord of Winterfell. But where the blade touched the ground a fire flared up. Not strong nor bright but constant.
Robb made Ice slide up along the back part of Jon's lit practice sword to try and strike him. With reflexes he didn't remember having before, Jon leaned forward while keeping the flaming sword on Ice, his body corkscrewing so that he controlled the longsword's ascent to pass in an arc over him and to hit the ground on the other side while his fiery blade left more blazes on the ground where it touched. As Jon closed in, he angled his right side to shoulder check Robb and deliver a violent shove back. As soon as he felt his brother's body react to his unorthodox tactic, Jon swiped his blade through the ground at their feet, leaving a blazing trail connecting the two points of fire between them.
Robb regained his footing as he moved backward, swinging defensively at Jon. Jon moved back as well, burning sword at the ready in front of him. He and Robb eyed each other as the flames merrily danced on the ground and on the wooden practice sword, oblivious to the struggle taking place in this empty mockery of Winterfell.
"Just tell me why Jon?" Robb called as they circled each other, the flames between them both as the ground crunched beneath their boots. Their breaths puffed in the air as Robb asked again: "Why do you so want to claim the Lordship of Winterfell? Why do you desire it so?"
"Because I am not just a bastard!" He called back in answer, allowing himself to answer this imaginary Robb in a way he had always wanted. Some long repressed anger seeped into his voice as he continued. "I am as much worthy of being father's legacy as you! I am his blood too! Simply because I was not born to Lady Catelyn does not merit me being branded as his shame instead of his son!" He shouted even as his eyes were taking in a curious sight. As they had circled each other across the flames, occasionally Jon would feint forward in different directions to try and create an opening in Robb's guard. Robb meanwhile would feint forward to the left or the right, but never straight. Not when the flames where in front of him.
"Do you truly think that matters to the world? To anyone who does not know you?" Robb softly reproached even as they continued prowl.
Jon's heart hurt at the question. He remained silent, instead deciding he needed to test his theory's validity as to Robb's avoidance of the flames. As Robb feinted to go to the left around the flames, Jon recklessly dove straight through them: his sword swinging at Robb's head. Startled, his red-headed brother brought Ice up to parry. But this was merely a distraction, for as soon as the wooden sword touched the edge of Ice, Jon had brought it straight down before using it to draw a semi-circle in front of Robb's feet.
Robb jumped back as though he had been scalded. But still, the ancestral Stark sword flashed toward Jon's head. In less than a moment Jon had taken three steps back, his eyes on Robb. Suddenly Robb moved around the flames, coming in for a wide swing. Jon back pedaled in an adrenaline fueled haze, his left hand pulling him back toward a weapon rack that was nearby them. As he spun away from Robb's downward slash, he noticed something else.
Despite the force behind Robb's blow, his sword stopped inches from the weapon rack as though an invisible force prevented him from touching it. Astonished, Jon quickly pushed the rack toward his brother, who jumped away. As his brother moved around the fallen equipment, Jon stepped onto it, his fiery sword flashing toward Robb's legs yet again.
His brother moved away, stopping as though hitting a solid wall when he almost touched a wooden post that supported the overhang and balcony above. Jon drove the sword tip forward at Robb's midsection, thinking to end this in one blow.
Robb spun away as Jon's blunted tip impossibly sunk into the support and set it ablaze in an instant. Jon was forced to let go of the wooden sword as Robb's hands attempted to separate his hands from his body at the wrist. Even as his hands moved back, Robb had brought the pommel to bear and smashed it into Jon's face before kicking him in his stomach so hard he flew backward two feet before landing on his back with a loud thud.
Jon let out a muffled cry into his hands as they covered his almost certainly broken nose. The pain was a sharp reminder of the voice's warning about his danger. Jon scrambled backward as his aged up half-brother stalked toward him, his right hand blindly thrusting outward as his memories of the fire in the Sept rushed to the forefront. A gout of bright red flame erupted from Jon's outstretched hand, scorching the ground in front of him in wide cone toward his attacker, who had swiftly moved back again.
Jon's breath was ragged, his every intake and exhale bringing a fresh wave of pain from his ruined nose. The blood dripped steadily, forming a small red pool at his feet as he stood up. His mind was racing as he attempted to puzzle out how he could use Robb's weaknesses to win.
'He can't pass through my flames. And he can't harm Winterfell itself. I can understand my fire, but why can he not strike anything of Winterfell? Is he not the lord of it?' Jon wondered as Robb edged his way around the flames. Unbidden, a memory of something their father had once said sprang to mind. 'The man who forgets leadership is a burden as well as a privilege will find it melts away in his grasp like a snowflake in the palm of his hand.'
And then it occurred to Jon what that might mean. That Robb Stark was as much constrained by his title of Lord of Winterfell as he had been elevated by it. That Robb had been born into a cage that he had no hope of escaping. A comfortably lined cage no doubt, but a cage it was none the less. Jon Snow on the other hand, had been trained by expert warriors and educated by a dedicated scholar. From an objective standpoint, he had choices open to him that Robb would never know.
As Robb came around the fire and started to swing his sword down at Jon again, Jon remained standing where he was. From his position, he spoke.
"I don't need to fight you Robb." He said calmly, heart beating rapidly as the blade stopped inches from his dark hair.
Robb simply looked at him, frozen in that position he had been in when swinging the sword.
"I don't need to fight you." Jon repeated, amazed at the feeling of a weight lifting that accompanied his declaration.
"You may be the Lord of Winterfell, but you have no choice." Jon continued, the words spilling from him without conscious thought. "I have learned to be a lord. Or a warrior. Or a scholar. No matter what I may become, it will only ever be my choice."
He looked around this abandoned Winterfell one last time, seeing the hills and walls, his imagination supplying the view of a fire trapped within a pit, trapped and able to be extinguished with a single errant shovelful of dirt.
"I choose to be free." Jon said as Robb lowered his blade, blade sinking into the ground as his hands rested on the pommel again and the fires and destruction began to reverse itself. "I choose to go where I wish, not where I am bidden."
He smiled at Robb, his teeth bloodstained from his now clotted nose. "Goodbye brother." He said, turning toward the gate of the keep. As he approached, it opened to reveal the night again. Jon brought the flame to mind again, his hand once more burning. Taking a single last breath, he stepped out of the familiar grounds and back into the shadows.
One down, two to go. He thought to himself as his nose gave a pained twinge.
A/N: Fourth chapter up! Hope you guys will review and let me know what you think! :)