The Three Headed Titan

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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), Chapter 14 (Giants in the Snow), and Chapter 15 (Horizons of the Wolf) are already available for Patrons.

The feast continued well into the night, the warm glow of candlelight casting dancing shadows across the walls of the Great Hall. The musicians had switched to slower, more intimate melodies as the evening wore on, and many of the older guests had already retired.

Jon held Wylla close as they swayed to the music, her green hair occasionally brushing against his cheek. The embarrassment of Lord Manderly's bear tale had finally begun to fade, helped along by Wylla's constant stream of witty observations about the remaining guests.

"Oh, look," she whispered, nodding toward a corner. "Lord Locke has finally fallen asleep in his cups. I do believe that's a new record - he usually makes it at least another hour."

Jon smiled, watching as the elderly lord's head bobbed gently. "Should someone wake him?"

"Absolutely not. Last time someone did, he challenged them to a duel. Granted, he could barely stand, but it's the principle of the thing."

"Is everything a story with you?"

"Of course! Life's more interesting that way." She grinned up at him. "Besides, you're one to talk, Bear Slayer."

Jon groaned. "I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"Not in this lifetime. Though I must say," she added, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, "watching you squirm when Grandfather was telling the tale was quite entertaining."

"Glad I could provide amusement, my lady."

"Always so proper," she sighed dramatically. "Even after I dragged you into a wine cellar."

"Speaking of which," Jon glanced around the now-thinning crowd, "perhaps I should escort you to your chambers before you find any more cellars to explore."

Wylla's eyes sparkled with mischief. "My, my, Jon Snow. Are you proposing to take advantage of an innocent young lady?"

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Innocent? You?"

"I'll have you know I am the very picture of innocence," she declared, batting her eyelashes exaggeratedly. "Just ask Lady Dandyrlyn. She's been watching me like a hawk all evening to ensure my virtue remains intact."

"Is that why she looked ready to faint when you showed me that 'secret passageway' earlier?"

"Possibly. Though that might have been because she saw where my hand was."

Jon grinned wickedly and leaned in closer. "Well, can't blame her there - your hands do tend to wander into some... interesting places."

Wylla gave him a saucy smirk, trailing her fingers up his chest. "Only the most interesting places, my lord. I have very... talented hands, after all." She beamed at him. "Now, about that escort..."

The music was winding down, and servants had begun clearing away the remnants of the feast. Even the great bear platter had been reduced to bones, though Jon suspected Lord Manderly would have those mounted somewhere as a trophy.

"It would be my honor," Jon said with an exaggerated bow, offering his arm.

Wylla took it with equally exaggerated grace. "Well, if you insist. Though I should warn you - my chamber is quite far. We might have to take several detours."

"Straight there," Jon insisted, though he couldn't keep the smile from his face.

They made their way out of the Great Hall, nodding to the few remaining guests. The corridors of White Harbor were quieter now, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. 

"Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" Wylla asked, her voice softer now that they were alone.

"More than I expected to," Jon admitted. "Though I suspect that had more to do with the company than the feast itself."

"Careful there, Jon. Keep saying sweet things like that and I might have to keep you."

The feast's sounds had faded behind them, replaced by the distant crash of waves against the harbor walls.

"Thank you again for the dance," Wylla said, her green hair catching the torchlight.

Before Jon could respond, a figure stumbled around the corner ahead – Lord Wyllman Manderly, his normally pristine robes somewhat askew.

"Grandfather?" Wylla stepped forward. "Are you alright? Do you need help to your chambers?"

The old lord waved off her concern, his face flushed from wine. His eyes fixed on Jon with the unfocused intensity of the deeply drunk. "Ah! The hero of the hour!"

Lord Wyllman lurched forward, clapping a meaty hand on Jon's shoulder hard enough to make him step back. "That bear would have been dangerous to our people if not for you, boy. Quick with that sword or was it a spear? Just like your lord father."

A small, warm smile crossed Jon's face. It wasn't often he received praise from highborn lords, and for a moment, he allowed himself to savor it.

"Very grateful, very grateful indeed..." Lord Wyllman's words slurred together. "Good show, Lord Snow. Good show."

The old man stumbled past them, humming tunelessly. 

"Well, that was pleasent," Wylla observed. "Though I suppose 'lord' is technically a compliment—"

She broke off as she felt Jon's arm tense under her hand. Looking up, she saw his jaw was clenched, his earlier warmth replaced by something harder, colder.

"Jon? What's wrong?"

He didn't answer, just continued walking, his steps now more measured, controlled. Wylla felt the shift in him like a slap in the face, as if walls had suddenly sprung up between them.

"Jon?" she tried again, but he remained silent.

They reached her chamber door far too quickly. Wylla turned to face him, studying his expression in the flickering torchlight. The man who had been laughing and flirting with her all evening seemed to have vanished, replaced by someone more distant.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked softly. "I have wine... we could talk..."

"Thank you for the dances tonight, my lady," Jon said formally, his voice carefully neutral. "I enjoyed them very much."

Before she could respond, he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles - proper, courteous, and completely devoid of the warmth they'd shared all evening.

"Jon, wait—"

But he was already turning away, his boots echoing on the stone floor as he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Wylla stood at her door for a long moment, watching the space where he'd been. Something had changed in that moment when her drunk grandfather had called out to him. Something had broken or perhaps been reminded.

She thought about the way he'd smiled earlier when she'd teased him about his brooding, the way his eyes had lit up when she'd made him laugh. She thought about the gentle way he'd touched her hair, the heat in his gaze when they'd been alone in the wine cellar.

And then she thought about the sudden coldness that had come over him at being called "Lord Snow," as if the very words had been a blade between his ribs.

"Oh, Jon," she whispered to the empty corridor, realising what the problem was.

But only the shadows answered, dancing silently on the walls as the torches flickered in the night breeze.

Inside her chamber, Wylla poured herself a cup of wine and walked to the window. Below, she could see the lights of White Harbor spread out like fallen stars, and beyond that, the darker expanse of the sea. Somewhere in the castle, Jon Snow was probably brooding in some dark corner, building his walls even higher.

She took a sip of wine and smiled to herself. Well, if there was one thing Wylla Manderly enjoyed, it was a challenge. And Jon Snow, with all his complexities and contradictions, was proving to be the most interesting challenge she'd encountered in quite some time.

"Run all you want, Jon Snow," she murmured, watching a distant ship's lantern bob on the horizon. "But you cannot escape from me."

Jon Snow

Jon's footsteps echoed through the empty corridors of White Harbor, each step taking him further from Wylla's door, yet the weight in his chest only seemed to grow heavier. 

He found himself at a window, looking out over White Harbor. 

"Lord Snow."

The words tasted bitter in his mouth as he whispered them to the night air. Two simple words that had shattered the evening's warmth like ice cracking beneath unwary feet.

His mind wandered back to his arrival in White Harbor, how different everything had seemed. The streets paved in stone so pale they almost glowed, the constant bustle of trade and commerce - it had all been so foreign to a boy raised in Winterfell's halls.

And then there was Wylla.

Jon closed his eyes, but that only made her image clearer in his mind: green hair catching the sunlight, quick smile always ready with a jest, eyes that sparkled with mischief. He remembered their first meeting, how she'd practically dragged him around the castle.

"If you're half as good as they say," she'd declared, "you can help me win a bet against my sister."

He hadn't stood a chance against her. Before he knew it, he was being dragged to the practice yard, where she'd proceeded to prove that she was far from the typical noble lady.

"My grandfather says a lady should know how to defend herself," she'd explained while demonstrating a surprisingly decent archery stance. "Though I think he meant something more along the lines of 'how to call the guards' rather than 'how to put an arrow through someone's eye at fifty paces.'"

Jon found himself smiling at the memory, then immediately sobered. That was exactly the problem, wasn't it? How easily she made him smile, how naturally she drew him out of his usual reserve.

He resumed his walk to his chambers. The corridors seemed colder now, the shadows deeper. Or perhaps that was just his mood coloring everything darker.

The wine cellar incident replayed in his mind. How she'd grabbed his hand during the feast, her beautiful eyes. How they had danced with one another.

"The best wines are always hidden in the back," she'd confided, producing a key from somewhere in her dress. "Grandfather thinks he's terribly clever with his hiding places, but he forgets I grew up exploring every nook of this castle."

They'd shared wine and stories, sitting on old crates in the dim cellar. She'd asked about Winterfell, about his siblings, about his training - and unlike others, she'd seemed genuinely interested in his answers. There had been no pity in her eyes when he spoke of being the Bastard of Winterfell, no careful distance in her manner.

Jon reached his chamber door but paused before entering. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, trying to get his thoughts in order.

"I'm such a fool," he muttered. 

Inside his chamber, he paced restlessly. The room was comfortable, far more luxurious than his quarters at Winterfell, but right now it felt like a cage. The fire had burned low, casting more shadows than light.

"Lord Snow," he said again, tasting the mockery in it. How many times had he heard those words spat at him? From stable boys to kitchen maids to visiting lords - always with that edge of derision, that reminder that he was reaching above his station by merely existing in noble spaces.

But when had Wylla ever treated him that way?

He thought of their dance earlier that evening and how natural it had felt to hold her close and talk with her. She'd made him forget, for a while, all the barriers that should have stood between them.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

Jon sank into a chair by the dying fire, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He'd allowed himself to forget his place, to pretend he could have something he had no right to want.

"I'm a bastard," he reminded himself harshly. "And she's the granddaughter of one of the most powerful lords in the North."

The facts lined up in his mind like an army arrayed for battle: He was baseborn, with no inheritance and no prospects beyond what he could carve out for himself. In three years, he planned to take the black, to join the Night's Watch where his birth wouldn't matter. Even if he didn't, what could he offer someone like Wylla?

Lord Manderly might be fond of him now, might praise his skill with a sword and celebrate his defeat of the bear, but that warmth would freeze faster than a summer snow if Jon dared to think above his station. The Lord of White Harbor would never allow his granddaughter to marry a bastard, not even Lord Stark's bastard.

And Wylla... gods, Wylla deserved better than a life of whispers and sidelong glances, of people wondering why she'd lowered herself to marry a bastard. She deserved someone who could give her a proper place in society, not someone who would drag her down into the shadows with him.

"I should never have let it get this far," he told no one. "I should have kept my distance from the start."

But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't have been possible. Wylla wasn't the sort of person you could keep at a distance. She crashed through carefully constructed walls like a summer storm, bringing light and laughter with her.

Jon thought of how cold he'd been when leaving her at her door, how the hurt had flashed in her eyes before she could hide it. He'd done that to protect them both, he told himself. Better a clean break now than a messier one later.

Still, the memory of her standing there, hand outstretched in invitation, haunted him. What if he'd accepted? What if he'd followed her into her chamber, shared more wine, more conversation, more...?

"No," he said aloud, standing abruptly. "It ends now. It has to."

Tomorrow, he would maintain his distance. He would be polite but formal. He would remember his place, remember who he was and who she was, and why there could never be anything between them.

Lord Snow. Not even a real lord, just a mocking title for a bastard who dared to walk among his betters.

The fire had died completely now, leaving the room in darkness save for the moonlight streaming through the window. Jon walked to the window, looking out over the sleeping city. 

Was she thinking of him? Wondering what had gone wrong? Or had she already dismissed him, realizing that he wasn't worth her time?

Either possibility hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Wylla

In her chambers, Wylla paced restlessly, her fingers drumming against her wine cup. The memory of Jon's sudden coldness gnawed at her thoughts, his abrupt transformation from the warm, engaging man she'd been dancing with into something distant and formal.

"'Thank you for the dances tonight, my lady,'" she mimicked his words, rolling her eyes. "As if we hadn't spent the entire day flirting in wine cellars and hidden passages."

She moved to her vanity, studying her reflection in the mirror. The green hair that had drawn so many of Jon's subtle glances throughout the evening was slightly disheveled from dancing. She touched it thoughtfully, remembering how his eyes had followed the movement when she'd tossed it over her shoulder while laughing at one of his dry observations about Lord Locke's snoring.

"Lord Snow," she murmured, understanding dawning in her eyes. "That's what changed him."

Growing up in White Harbor, Wylla had learned to read people as easily as she read the shipping ledgers her grandfather insisted she study. The way Jon had tensed at those words, the way his warm mismatched eyes had suddenly gone hard as iron.

"You stupid, noble fool," she said to her reflection. "You think being a bastard matters to me?"

She'd seen how he carried it, that weight of his birth. It was there in the careful way he held himself among the nobles. But she'd also seen how it fell away when they were alone, when he forgot to maintain those rigid walls he'd built around himself.

"He made me laugh," she told her reflection. "Do you know how rare that is? Not just giggling at some lordling's clumsy attempts at wit, but really laugh?"

The wine cellar came back to her – how he'd tried to maintain his proper distance until she'd practically dragged him into a conversation about the ridiculous names nobles gave their swords. His deadpan suggestion that she name her bow "Splinter" had caught her so off guard she'd nearly spat out her wine.

Wylla moved to the window, looking out over the harbor. Somewhere in this castle, Jon Snow was probably convincing himself that he wasn't worthy of happiness, of connection, of her.

"As if he has any say in what I want," she muttered stubbornly.

She thought of how he'd looked during the feast, when he'd forgotten to be the Bastard of Winterfell and had just been Jon – the way his rare smiles transformed his entire face, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was truly amused, the gentle way he'd held her while they danced.

"And now he's going to try to avoid me," she realized. "He's going to be all 'my lady' this and 'pardon me' that, like we're suddenly strangers."

The thought made her angry. Not at Jon – well, maybe a little at Jon – but at the society that had convinced him he was somehow less worthy because of circumstances beyond his control. At the people who'd used "Lord Snow" as a weapon to remind him of his place.

"Well," she said, straightening her shoulders with determination, "they clearly don't know Wylla Manderly very well."

She'd never been good at doing what was expected of her. Her grandfather often said she'd inherited her grandmother's spirit along with her sharp tongue. Where other noble ladies learned to embroider, she'd learned to shoot. Where they learned to simper and flirt behind fans, she'd learned to argue policy and trade with merchants and ship captains.

And where they might turn away from a bastard-born lord's son, she found herself increasingly drawn to his quiet strength, his dry humor, his carefully hidden kindness.

"You want to run away, Jon Snow?" she challenged the night air. "Fine. But you should know – I'm very good at hunting."

Tomorrow

Dawn had barely touched the horizon when Wylla put her plan into motion. 

"Perfect," she murmured, quickly braiding her green hair and donning a practical dress suitable for movement. She'd chosen it deliberately – fine enough to maintain her status, but sturdy enough for what she had in mind.

The practice yard was exactly as she'd expected: empty save for Jon. She paused in the shadows of the archway, taking a moment to observe him. He moved with fluid grace as he worked through sword forms. Even in practice, there was something compelling about his intensity, the absolute focus he brought to each movement.

"Your footwork's improved," she called out, stepping into the yard. "Though you're still favoring your right side."

Jon startled, nearly dropping his practice sword. "Lady Wylla," he said stiffly, immediately falling into a formal bow. "I apologize if my practice disturbs your morning."

"Oh, stop that," she said, rolling her eyes. She walked to the weapons rack and selected a practice sword. "If you're going to avoid me, at least be honest about it."

"My lady, I—"

"And if you 'my lady' me one more time, I'm going to hit you with this." She gave the practice sword an experimental swing. "Now, are you going to teach me that disarming move you used on Ser Marlon, or do I need to ask one of the guards?"

Jon's expression was a fascinating mix of confusion, alarm, and something else – something that looked suspiciously like longing before he masked it. "This isn't appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Wylla laughed. "I'm the granddaughter of Wyman Manderly. When have I ever cared about appropriate?" She moved into a basic stance, one she'd learned from watching the guards train. "Besides, grandfather himself said I should learn to defend myself. Unless you think you're not qualified to teach?"

She saw the challenge hit home, saw the way his jaw tightened. Good. Let him try to hide behind propriety – she knew how to break through those defenses.

"Your grip is wrong," he said finally, sighing. "You'll drop the sword if you hold it like that."

"Then show me the right way."

He hesitated, then moved behind her. His hands were warm as they adjusted her grip, his voice low as he explained the proper technique. Wylla smiled to herself, feeling his careful distance already beginning to crack.

"Better," he said, stepping back quickly. "But your stance is still off."

"Then we'll have to practice until I get it right," she said cheerfully.

"Lady Wylla—"

"Same time tomorrow," she repeated firmly. "Unless you want me learning bad habits from someone else?"

She saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his sense of duty and his desire to help. Finally, he nodded, though she could see he wasn't happy about it.

"Excellent!" She returned the practice sword to the rack. "And since you've already ruined my morning dress with all this dust, you might as well join me for breakfast. I have questions about that shield block you used."

"I shouldn't—"

"The kitchens sent up those blackberry tarts you like," she added innocently. "Far too many for me to eat alone."

"Come on, Jon," she said after a moment of silence, gentling her voice. "You can go back to avoiding me after breakfast if you really want to."

He followed her, as she'd known he would. One small victory in what she knew would be a longer campaign, but Wylla was nothing if not persistent.

.

.

Over the next several days, she implemented what she privately called her "Siege of Snow" strategy. She caught him in the practice yard each morning, insisting on lessons that required his hands-on guidance. She appeared in the library when he was studying maps, armed with questions about northern geography that only he could answer. She recruited him to help her practice archery, claiming her aim was off (it wasn't).

Each time, she could see his resolve weakening. His formal "Lady Wylla" became just "Wylla" again when he forgot to maintain his distance. His smiles, though still guarded, came more freely. He stopped flinching when their hands accidentally touched.

But it wasn't enough. She could still see the walls behind his eyes, the way he pulled back whenever they got too close to something real.

"Time for a more direct approach," she decided one evening, watching him slip away from the dining hall early to avoid sitting near her.

She knew where he would go – the battlements had become his favorite retreat when avoiding her. Sure enough, she found him there, staring out over the harbor.

"It won't work, you know," she said, coming to stand beside him.

"What won't?"

"This noble suffering act. Pushing me away to protect me, or whatever bullshit reason you've convinced yourself is right."

"Wylla—"

"No, you're going to listen now." She turned to face him fully. "You think I don't know what I want? You think I haven't considered every argument you're torturing yourself with? I'm not some naive girl who doesn't understand the world, Jon Snow."

"I'm a bastard," he said quietly, still not looking at her.

"And I'm a woman with green hair who'd rather learn swordplay than needlework. Neither of us fits the mold we're supposed to, do we?"

That got him to look at her, finally. She pressed her advantage.

"You think my grandfather cares about your birth? He cares that you're honorable, that you're skilled, that you fought a bear to protect your people. He cares that you make his granddaughter smile."

"It's not that simple—"

"It's exactly that simple," she interrupted. "Unless... unless I'm wrong, and you don't actually care for me. If that's true, tell me now, and I'll stop pursuing you."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the sound of waves and distant seabirds. Wylla held her breath, watching the conflict play across his face.

"I... I can't give you what you deserve," he said finally, his voice rough.

"Then it's a good thing I decide what I deserve," she replied, stepping closer. "And what I want is you, Jon Snow, titles or no titles."

She saw the moment his resolve cracked, saw it in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes softened. When she reached for his hand, he didn't pull away.

"I'm still joining the Night's Watch in three years," he warned, but his thumb was tracing patterns on her palm.

"Then we have three years," she said simply. "Unless I convince you otherwise."

"You're impossible," he said, but the words held a warmth that had been missing for days.

"Completely impossible," she agreed cheerfully. "You might as well stop fighting it."

And there, on the battlements of White Harbor, Jon Snow finally stopped fighting. When he kissed her, it tasted like victory and possibility and something very much like hope.

Wylla smiled against his lips, making a mental note to thank her grandmother for teaching her that sometimes the best battles were won not with swords or arrows, but with persistence, courage, and an absolute refusal to let go of what you knew was right.

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