King of Winter

Chapter 3: The Price of Power

The candle flickered in Jon's chamber as he stared at the blood dripping from his palm. At ten namedays old, he'd discovered that some magic demanded more than just words and will. The old powers, especially, required sacrifice.

"Blood of the First Men," he whispered, letting the drops fall onto the carved piece of weirwood before him. "Blood of the dragon." The latter was still his secret, buried deep where even his father's – uncle's – grave expressions couldn't find it.

The wood began to glow, pulsing with a deep red light that matched the heart trees. Jon had spent months preparing for this ritual, combining the wandlore he remembered from Ollivander with the ancient magic he'd learned from studying texts so old they nearly crumbled at his touch.

His first wand, crafted with Ghost's hair, had served him well for years. But as his power grew, he'd felt its limitations. This new one would be different. Special. A true blending of both worlds.

The door creaked.

"Jon?" Robb's voice was barely a whisper. "Are you still awake? Father's looking for—" His brother stopped mid-sentence, staring at the glowing wood and the blood.

For a moment, Jon considered Obliviating him, the spell dancing at the tip of his tongue. But this was Robb. In another life, keeping secrets had torn their family apart.

"Come in," Jon said quietly. "And shut the door."

Robb did, his eyes never leaving the pulsing light. "Is this... magic? Real magic? Not just the tricks you do to entertain Arya?"

Jon smiled sadly. If only his brother knew that those "tricks" included teaching their little sister how to disarm opponents and move silently through shadows. "It's real. All of it. The old powers aren't dead, Robb. They're just sleeping. And they're waking up."

"Show me," Robb breathed, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him.

Jon raised his old wand, conjuring a pack of wolves made of blue fire that raced around the room. With another flick, he transformed his bed into a massive direwolf and back. Simple spells, but Robb's eyes went wide as saucers.

"Seven hells," he whispered. "Does Father know?"

"Maester Luwin does. And I think Father suspects. But what I'm doing tonight... this is different." Jon gestured to the glowing weirwood. "This is old magic. The kind the First Men used before the Andals came. The kind we'll need when winter comes."

Robb frowned. "Winter is always coming. That's what Father says."

"Not like this one." Jon met his brother's eyes. "I know things, Robb. Things I shouldn't know. Things I've seen." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Do you trust me?"

"With my life."

"Then I need you to keep this secret. And... I need your blood too."

To his credit, Robb barely hesitated before holding out his hand. "Show me how."

The ritual lasted until dawn. Jon carved runes into the weirwood, each one glowing with power as he combined the ancient spells of the North with the precise wandwork he remembered from another life. Robb watched, occasionally adding his own blood when Jon instructed.

The result was a wand unlike anything in either world. Weirwood and direwolf hair, bound with the blood of two Starks, crowned with a shard of dragonglass. When Jon first grasped it, the torches in the room froze and burst into flame simultaneously.

"There's more, isn't there?" Robb asked as they watched the sunrise from Jon's window. "More than just magic. You're planning something."

Jon twirled his new wand between his fingers, watching ice crystals form and melt in the air. "There's a storm coming, brother. The greatest Westeros has ever seen. The Others beyond the Wall, wars in the South, dragons in the East..."

"Dragons? Others? Those are just stories—"

"They're not. Just like magic wasn't just a story." Jon created an illusion of the Wall, perfect in every detail. Above it, a massive army of the dead marched. "Everything Old Nan told us is true. And we're not ready. The North isn't ready."

Robb was quiet for a long moment. "What do we do?"

"We prepare. I'll teach you what I can of magic – you have the blood for it, even if it's not as strong as..." Jon caught himself. "As mine. We'll need every advantage."

"And Father?"

"For now, we wait. He has enough burdens without adding ours. But soon..." Jon stood, pointing his new wand at the practice yard below. With a complex wave, all the training dummies sprang to life, engaging in a perfect sword dance. "Soon, the North will remember what it means to have magic in its veins."

"When you say it like that, you sound like him," Robb mused.

"Like who?"

"Father. All lordly and serious." Robb grinned. "But you're still my little brother."

Jon smiled back, but his eyes remained grave. In his mind, he could see it all playing out – the royal visit that would tear their family apart, the war that would follow, the dead that would rise. But this time would be different. This time, he had magic, knowledge, and now, he had Robb.

"Come on," he said, heading for the door. "We need to get to the practice yard before anyone notices we're missing. And Robb?" He turned back. "Thank you. For believing me."

"Always, brother. Always."