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Jon stared at the blue figure before him, taking in the strange orange and yellow robes that seemed to flow like air itself. The man's bald head bore intricate arrow tattoos, visible even through the ethereal glow that surrounded him. Of all the strange blue people Jon had encountered, Aang's appearance was perhaps the most foreign—neither the imposing presence of Kyoshi with her white-painted face.
And yet, just like with the others, Jon somehow knew his name without being told.
"Aang," he breathed, the word escaping his lips before he could consider it.
The man smiled warmly. "Hello, Jon. I've been looking forward to meeting you properly."
Jon found himself returning the smile despite his confusion. There was something disarmingly genuine about Aang's demeanor.
"Why are you here?" Jon asked, gesturing to his chamber. "I mean, why now?"
Aang leaned casually against his staff. "I wanted to talk with you. About what happened back on the ship."
Jon's expression darkened as memories of the capsized vessel and the churning water flooded back. "What exactly happened to me out there?"
"What do you think happened?" Aang countered, his gray eyes twinkling.
Jon felt a flicker of annoyance at the non-answer. "I saw my siblings and Wylla about to drown. Then I heard a voice telling me I could save them." He ran a hand through his still-damp hair. "Everything after that is... a blur. I'm not sure what I did exactly, but I think I somehow made the water rush toward shore." His brow furrowed. "But my waterbending is nowhere near that powerful yet."
He looked up sharply. "You were the voice, weren't you?"
Aang nodded. "What happened to you happened to me a long time ago."
"You and your friends were in danger of drowning?" Jon asked.
"Kinda," Aang replied with a cheeky smile. "We were trying to escape from enemies. I fell into the sea and found myself in a similar situation."
Jon studied Aang's transparent form for a moment, then cut to the heart of the matter. "Why are you here? Really?"
The abrupt question seemed to catch Aang off guard. "To talk, like I said—"
"No," Jon interrupted, his patience wearing thin. "What is this exactly? Why can I see you? Why can I control elements? Can everyone do it if they're taught? Could Robb do it if I tried to teach him?" The questions tumbled out faster now. "What happened to me in that sea? Why did I feel so powerful in that moment? Why did it feel like I could control everything?"
Aang's smile dimmed slightly, though it didn't disappear entirely. "I'm not sure if others can learn to bend the elements. The chances are... low." His expression grew more serious. "Jon, you have a gift. A gift you can use to better the world."
Jon gave a bitter laugh. "Why me? I'm a bastard."
Aang winced. "Carrying a bastard's name doesn't change the person you are."
"And what kind of person am I?" Jon challenged.
"A caring one," Aang replied without hesitation. "You saved those people in the water. Someone more selfish might have thought that letting certain people die would have been more beneficial for their own personal gain."
Jon realized immediately who Aang was referring to. His hands clenched into fists. "I would never let anything happen to Robb. He's my brother."
Even if his mother hates me. Even if he'll be Lord of Winterfell while I'll be nothing. He's still my brother.
"I'm happy to hear that," Aang said, his smile returning. "I'm here to show you something."
Before Jon could ask what he meant, Aang stepped forward and gently pressed his index finger to Jon's forehead.
The world shifted.
Jon gasped as he watched his own body collapse limply onto the floor while he remained standing—transparent and blue, just like Aang and the other spirits he'd encountered.
"What did you do to me?" Jon demanded, panic rising in his chest as he stared at his unmoving form.
"Don't worry," Aang reassured him. "You'll return to your body after we take a look at the Spirit World."
"The Spirit World?" Jon echoed. "What's that?"
"You'll see," Aang said with a mysterious smile as they began to float upward.
Jon watched in astonishment as they passed through the ceiling of his chamber and continued rising. Below them, White Harbor sprawled like a child's toy, the buildings growing smaller until the entire city was just a cluster of tiny lights against the darkness.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, everything changed.
Jon found himself standing on a small, circular island surrounded by gently rippling water. Strange, twisted trees rose from the water's surface, their roots visible beneath the crystal-clear depths. The sky above them was neither day nor night but something in between, painted in surreal colors that shifted as he watched.
"Where are we?" Jon asked, his voice hushed with awe.
"The Spirit World," Aang replied simply.
Jon shot him an irritated look. "Yes, but what is the Spirit World? Is this where the dead go?" A sudden fear gripped him. "Am I dead?"
"No," Aang said quickly. "You're not dead. You can return to your body whenever we're done."
Jon took a few cautious steps, noting how solid the ground felt despite the otherworldly appearance of everything around them. "Why did you bring me here? Are you finally going to explain everything?"
Aang looked apologetic. "I can't explain everything. At least, not until you're older."
Jon glared at him, the familiar words striking a nerve. They were exactly what his father always said when Jon asked about his mother.
"Is there anything you can tell me?" Jon asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Who is Kyoshi? Who is Kuruk? Who is Korys? Why do I sometimes dream of strange places I've never seen before?"
Aang's expression softened. "They're people like me, who lived before me but are now gone. They guide you, as they once guided me."
Jon sensed there was much more to it than that, but he could tell Aang wouldn't elaborate further. "Fine. Then why did you bring me here?"
"To show you something important," Aang said, extending his hand. "Will you trust me?"
"Sit down," Aang said, gesturing to a smooth, flat stone beside the water's edge. "Let's talk."
Jon hesitated but did as instructed, folding his legs beneath him as Aang settled into a strange posture—legs crossed, fists pressed together. Jon awkwardly mimicked the position.
"What troubles you, Jon?" Aang asked, his gray eyes kind but penetrating.
Jon stared at his translucent hands. "I'm not sure what to make of this strange power I have. What does it mean for me? For my future?"
"A long time ago, I had to deal with a lot of responsibility too," Aang said, his gaze drifting to the bizarre landscape around them.
"What do you mean?"
Aang's smile turned sad. "When I was younger, there was a moment when I had to make a big decision. I chose to run away from my responsibilities."
"What happened?" Jon asked, drawn in despite himself.
"Bad things," Aang replied simply. "Things that might have been prevented if I'd been braver." He refocused on Jon. "The powers you've been given offer you an opportunity to help people, just like you helped your siblings and Lady Wylla today."
Jon frowned. "I didn't ask for these powers."
"Few who are worthy of power ever do," Aang said. "These abilities give you the chance to be something more than just a boy with the bastard name. You can do good for this world, help people who need it."
Jon plucked absently at a strange luminescent plant growing between the stones. "Some people don't deserve help," he said quietly. "I've read the history books. There are men and women who've done such terrible things that helping them would be... wrong."
"I understand that feeling," Aang said. "But all life is precious, Jon. I once had to make the harder decision—to spare someone who many thought deserved death."
Jon gave him a skeptical look. "Do you know who the Mad King was?"
Aang shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not entirely sure."
"I wasn't born then," Jon said, "but the Mad King killed my uncle Brandon and my grandfather Rickard." His voice grew harder as he repeated the terrible story he'd heard whispered in Winterfell's halls. "He had my grandfather suspended over a fire in his armor while my uncle was forced to watch, strangling himself trying to reach a sword to save him."
Jon's hands had curled into fists. "Would you tell me someone like that deserves to be spared?"
Aang was quiet for a long moment. "The easiest path isn't always the right one, Jon," he said finally. "Taking a life—even a guilty one—changes you. It creates a ripple in the world that can't be undone."
"You speak like a septon," Jon muttered.
"I speak from experience," Aang countered gently. "Sometimes the harder choice is finding another way. Anyone can destroy. Creation and redemption require true courage."
Jon wasn't convinced. "What kind of man did you spare?"
"Someone drunk on his own power," Aang said, his eyes distant with memory. "Someone who wanted to burn down an entire country."
"And you didn't end him?" Jon asked incredulously.
Aang shook his head. "I found another way." He looked directly at Jon. "But you have your own road to walk. You don't have to listen to me or follow my path."
"I'm not sure what road I'm walking," Jon admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. "I have powers I don't understand, and my father refuses to tell me who my mother was. I don't even know who I am."
"I never knew my parents at all," Aang said quietly.
Jon looked up, surprised, suddenly feeling saddened. "I'm sorry."
Aang shook his head and stood. "It's alright, eventually I made very good friends that became my family for me."
A strange fish leaped from the water nearby, its scales flashing with impossible colors before it splashed back beneath the surface. Jon watched it disappear, then turned back to Aang.
"So you just let him go? This man who wanted to burn a country?"
Aang chuckled. "I didn't say that. I took away his ability to harm others." He wiggled his fingers mysteriously. "There are more ways to stop someone than killing them."
"Like freezing them in a block of ice?" Jon suggested, remembering what Kuruk had done with the fish.
"Now you're thinking like an Avatar," Aang said, looking pleased.
"A what?"
Aang coughed and quickly changed the subject. "So, that green-haired girl... Wylla? She seems nice."
Jon felt his cheeks warm. "She is."
"You know, I once had a crush on a girl with beautiful hair," Aang said conversationally. "Turned out she was a princess."
"Wylla's not a princess," Jon replied. "Just a lord's granddaughter."
"Close enough," Aang teased. "I saw how you look at her."
Jon's blush deepened. "Can we talk about something else?"
"Like what? Your sudden ability to create massive waves?" Aang's eyes twinkled mischievously.
"Yes, actually," Jon said firmly. "How did I do that? And why can't I firebend anymore?"
Aang sighed dramatically. "Always the serious questions with you. Has anyone ever told you that you need to have more fun?"
"I'm a bastard in Winterfell," Jon said dryly. "Fun isn't exactly encouraged."
"That's your problem right there," Aang said, springing lightly to his feet with a grace that seemed impossible. "Bending isn't just about stern concentration and grim determination. It's about joy, about connecting with the element."
To demonstrate, Aang spun his staff in a quick circle. A small whirlwind formed, catching several luminescent leaves and spinning them in a beautiful pattern.
"When I was learning waterbending," Aang continued, "my friend Katara kept telling me to feel the push and pull, to work with the water rather than forcing it. But I didn't really get it until we had a waterbending fight that turned into a game."
"A waterbending fight?" Jon repeated skeptically.
"It was much more fun than it sounds," Aang insisted. "The point is, sometimes you learn more from playing than from training."
Jon considered this. All his life, he'd approached swordplay with grim determination, seeing it as a way to prove himself worthy despite his birth. The idea of finding joy in his practice seemed foreign, almost inappropriate.
"That green-haired girl," Aang said more gently, "she makes you smile. Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
"She doesn't know what I can do," Jon replied. "No one does."
"The point is, Jon, don't be so serious all the time. Life is meant to be lived, not just endured." Aang demonstrated by doing a strange spinning jump that sent him ten feet into the air. "See? Fun!"
"I don't think I can do that," Jon said, watching Aang land lightly beside him.
"Not with that attitude," Aang replied, nudging Jon's shoulder. "Come on, try something. Anything."
Feeling foolish but strangely compelled, Jon stood and attempted a small jump while spinning. He managed about half a rotation before landing clumsily.
"See? Fun!" Aang repeated, clapping enthusiastically. "We'll make an airbender of you yet."
"Kyoshi said that to, she said I could bend air, but I'm not having the best time with it." Jon said with a grunt, he wanted to airbend, he still remembered Korys's words about Airbending, and the thought of flying was something exciting, he would be able to fly as if he had a dragon.
"I understand your desire to learn, but when the time is right, you will learn Airbending." Aang reassured him as he helped Jon to his feet with a smile.
"We'll have to leave soon. But before we go, what do you know of your firebending abilities that disappeared?"
Jon frowned. "Not much. Only that they're gone. I used to be able to create flame, and now I can't even make smoke."
"The others and I believe someone—or something—might be interfering," Aang said, his expression serious.
"How is that possible?" Jon asked, alarmed.
Aang sighed. "I'm not entirely sure. Tell me, what do you know of the Wall?"
The sudden change of subject caught Jon off guard. "Not much. Only that, according to my father, even people without names can earn honor there."
"There's something strange about that Wall," Aang said, tapping his staff thoughtfully against the ground. "Something... powerful. In the future, it might be important for you to visit it."
Jon nodded slowly, trying to connect these fragments of information.
"Jon," Aang continued, his voice low and urgent now, "be careful about who sees your abilities."
"No one else knows," Jon assured him.
"It's better if it stays that way, at least until you're stronger and can defend yourself."
A chill ran down Jon's spine. "You think someone might hurt me?"
"Have you seen anyone else capable of doing what you are able to do?" Aang asked.
Jon shook his head.
"People fear the unknown," Aang said simply. "They fear power they can't control."
Like the Targaryens and their dragons, Jon thought. The histories were clear about what happened when people felt threatened by power they couldn't match.
"If they see what you're capable of," Aang continued, "some might try to harm you. Others might try to use you."
"So I can't tell anyone?" Jon asked, thinking of Wylla and her green hair, her acceptance of him despite his bastard status, he thought of Arya, he thought of Robb. "Not even those I trust?"
Aang shook his head. "Once a secret is out, you can no longer control how that secret spreads. Wait until you're stronger."
Jon nodded reluctantly. As much as he hated secrets, he understood the wisdom in Aang's words.
Suddenly, Aang's form began to shimmer, turning a deeper, more transparent blue.
"It was a good talk, Jon," Aang said, his voice beginning to fade.
"Wait!" Jon shouted, panic rising in his chest. "How do I get back? How do I return to my body?"
But Aang was already gone, dissolving into mist that drifted away across the strange waters.
"Aang!" Jon called, his heart racing. "Anyone! How do I return?"
The Spirit World around him seemed suddenly vast and threatening. What if he was trapped here forever, his body lying empty in White Harbor while his spirit wandered this alien landscape?
Jon called out Kyoshi, Korys, Aang, Roku and Kuruk, but no one said anything...what was he supposed to do? Should he just wait here and hope one of them decides to appear and tell him how to go back. What if he got stuck here forever.
"I'm here," came a gentle voice from behind him.
Jon froze. He had not heard anyone approach, but that voice—he'd never heard it before, and yet it was achingly familiar, as if he'd known it all his life.
Slender arms encircled him from behind, and he felt a warmth that seemed to reach beyond his physical form, touching something deep within his soul.
"I will always show you the way home," the voice continued, soft as summer rain. "I would never leave you alone."
Jon wanted desperately to turn, to see the face of this woman who was holding him, to look into her eyes, her face, he wanted to see her. But some instinct told him that if he moved, she would be gone, and her warmth, the smile on her lips, and her voice would disappear along with her.
Instead, he closed his eyes, feeling gentle lips press against his forehead.
"Jon," the voice whispered, "you are loved, my son. Never forget that."
A tingling sensation spread through his body, like the gentle prickling of a limb awakening from sleep. The arms around him began to fade, but the warmth remained.
"Mother?" Jon whispered, but there was no answer.
Jon's eyes snapped open. He was lying on the floor of his chamber in New Castle, the cold stone pressing against his back. The room was exactly as it had been before Aang's arrival—the bed unmade, his boots by the door, the water basin still full.
But something had changed. As Jon sat up, touching his forehead where he could still feel the phantom pressure of a kiss, he felt a sense of peace he'd never known before.
You are loved, my son.
The words echoed in his mind, filling a void he hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. Whoever his mother was, whatever the truth of his birth, she had loved him. That knowledge, even without a name or face to attach to it, was more precious than anything Lord Stark could have told him.
Jon rose slowly to his feet, feeling different somehow—lighter, yet more grounded. The spirit world, Aang's warnings, his mysterious abilities—all of it remained confusing and frightening.
But for the first time in his life, Jon Snow didn't feel alone.
Tomorrow
Jon woke to the sounds of White Harbor stirring outside his window—gulls crying, vendors calling, the distant clang of the dockworkers' bells. For a moment, he lay still, trying to determine if his strange encounter with Aang had been real or merely a vivid dream.
The phantom sensation of a kiss on his forehead lingered, making him wonder about the mysterious voice that had guided him home. Mother? The possibility was too precious, too fragile to examine closely.
When he finally rose and dressed, Jon noticed his muscles ached as if he'd spent hours swimming—a physical reminder of yesterday's ordeal. He pulled on a clean tunic and made his way toward the Main Hall, his stomach grumbling despite the tumult of his thoughts.
The corridors buzzed with excited conversation, fragments reaching Jon as he passed servants, guards, and noble guests:
"—never seen a wave like that—" "—came out of nowhere, just as they were all drowning—" "—carried them right to shore—" "It was a miracle." "The Old Gods are watching White Harbor. They saved our heirs."
Jon kept his expression neutral, though each mention of the "miracle wave" sent a strange thrill through him. I did that, he thought, the realization still barely believable. I saved them all.
The Main Hall was packed when Jon arrived, the trestle tables crowded with people breaking their fast while animatedly discussing yesterday's events. He spotted Robb, Theon, and Arya seated at a table near the dais where Lord Stark and Lord Manderly were deep in conversation. Nearby, Lady Wynafryd sat with several other noble daughters, all gesturing dramatically as they recounted their versions of the rescue.
Only Wylla, Jon noticed, sat quietly at the edge of her sister's group, her green hair standing out vividly against the more subdued colors around her. Unlike the others, she wasn't speaking, merely picking at her food and occasionally glancing up—directly at him, Jon realized with a start.
He quickly looked away and made his way to Robb's table.
"The hero arrives!" Theon announced as Jon slid onto the bench beside Arya. "How's your head, Snow? That was quite a knock you took."
"My head's fine," Jon muttered, reaching for a hunk of bread. "What's everyone talking about?"
Robb leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. "What do you think? Yesterday's storm! It's all anyone can talk about."
"The wave," Arya interjected, stuffing a piece of cheese into her mouth. "They're calling it the Manderly Miracle."
Jon nearly choked on his bread. "The what?"
"The Manderly Miracle," Robb repeated with a grin. "Old Lord Wyman is quite pleased with the name. He's already commissioned the ship's carpenter to carve a commemorative plaque."
"That was no miracle," Theon scoffed, tearing into a chicken leg. "It was obviously the Drowned God's work. He saw ironborn blood about to spill and intervened."
Arya rolled her eyes. "It wasn't your Drowned God, stupid. It was the old gods. Father says they can work through water too, not just weirwoods and if it was your god, shouldn't he have let you drown to be reborn again or something."
"Your father would say that," Theon retorted. "Northerners always think it's the old gods."
"It was the Seven," insisted a passing servant, who quickly moved on when Theon glared at her.
Jon took a sip of watered wine, using the moment to compose himself. "What do you remember about it?" he asked carefully.
Robb's expression grew more serious. "Not much, honestly. The boat turned over, I went under, and when I came up, I saw this wall of water rising beneath us." He shook his head in wonder. "It didn't even feel like a normal wave. It was... steady, somehow. Like it was holding us up deliberately."
"It was beautiful," Arya said softly. "Like magic from Old Nan's stories."
"It was the Drowned God. Either way, we're alive, and that's what matters."
Jon felt a strange warmth in his chest at Robb's description. Like it was holding us up deliberately. Because it was. Because he had shaped that water with his will, guided it to safety with every ounce of his newfound power.
"What do you remember, Jon?" Arya asked, jerking him from his thoughts.
"Not much," he lied. "I went under when the boat capsized. Next thing I knew, I was on the beach with everyone else."
"Well, whatever it was, I'm grateful," Robb said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Father says we're all lucky to be alive."
Jon glanced toward the high table where Lord Stark sat. Their eyes met briefly, and Jon thought he saw something in his father's gaze—concern, perhaps, or some deeper worry. Had Ned Stark somehow connected yesterday's strange wave to the water that had erupted from his pitcher during their argument? The thought sent a chill down Jon's spine.
"I heard some of the sailors saying it was a warning," Theon said, lowering his voice. "The gods showing their displeasure at having baseborn blood mixing with noble houses on a pleasure cruise."
"Shut up, Theon," Robb said sharply, glancing at Jon.
"I'm just telling you what they're saying," Theon protested, though his smirk suggested he didn't mind repeating such rumors.
Jon kept his expression blank, though the words stung. Even here, where he'd been treated with more respect than ever before, his bastard status lurked like a shadow.
"Well, I think it was amazing," Arya declared, shifting closer to Jon in silent solidarity. "And I don't care what anyone says."
Throughout the conversation, Jon was acutely aware of Wylla's occasional glances from across the hall. Unlike the others, she remained unusually quiet, her green eyes thoughtful whenever they settled on him.
After finishing their meal, Robb pushed back from the table. "Come on," he said. "Father says we're to resume training today. No excuses about near-drowning."
"Of course not," Theon said dryly. "What's a little brush with death compared to sword practice?"
Jon rose to follow them, but a light touch on his arm stopped him. He turned to find Wylla standing there, her green hair falling in soft waves around her face.
"Could I speak with you?" she asked quietly. "In private?"
"Ooooh," Theon teased, nudging Robb. "The baseborn wolf has a secret admirer."
"Shut it, Greyjoy," Jon snapped, feeling his cheeks warm.
Robb grinned but pulled Theon away. "We'll see you at the training yard, Jon. Don't keep the lady waiting too long."
When they'd gone, Jon turned back to Wylla. "What is it?"
"Not here," she said, glancing around at the crowded hall. "Come with me."
Jon had expected her to lead him to another secret passage or forgotten tower. Instead, she guided him through the castle and out toward the godswood—a small, well-tended garden with a weirwood tree at its center. Unlike Winterfell's ancient godswood, this one felt newer, more decorative than sacred. Still, the white bark and red leaves of the heart tree commanded respect.
The space was deserted, visitors to New Castle preferring the ornate sept to this northern curiosity. Almost no one ever came this way. It was perhaps the most private place in the New Castle.
"I didn't know you followed the old gods," Jon remarked as they approached the weirwood.
"I don't, really," Wylla admitted. "But this is the one place in the castle where people won't disturb us. Even the servants avoid it—they think it watches them."
They stopped before the carved face, its red sap tears gleaming in the morning light. Jon waited, suddenly nervous under Wylla's intense gaze.
Her cheeks were flushed, whether from their brisk walk or something else, Jon couldn't tell. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, as if searching for something in his features.
Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Thank you."
Jon blinked, confused. "For what?"
"For saving us," Wylla said, her green eyes never leaving his face. "For saving everyone, but especially for saving my sister and me."
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