The Grind (And Helping Heather Potter) [Book 2]

Intense, soothing heat washed over his muscles, and Jon Snow leaned back into his bath. The hot springs of Winterfell were one of the hidden blessings of the world, no doubt. In the icy North, there existed a source of pleasure and survival so essential that the Kings of Winter settled right atop it. Blessed water rose from deep within the earth, heated by whatever forces lurked within. Due to its position, Winterfell was provided with the two things it needed most in the unforgiving North: potable water and heat.

In some places, the water from the hot springs was hot enough to boil. In others, it was the perfect temperature for bathing. In others still, it was pulled to the surface by wells to provide all of the water used by Winterfell and Winter Town. Portions of it even flowed through channels carved into the walls of Winterfell's keep, ensuring the castle was warm in the coldest of winters.

House Stark was lucky for the wisdom of their ancestors. Without them, nothing they enjoyed would've been. The Kingdom they ruled would've still belonged to the Barrow Kings or, gods forbid, the Red Kings of the Boltons. Without the legends of their line, House Stark would not exist.

Bran the Builder laid the foundation of Winterfell and the Wall and House Stark itself. The many Brandons after him built upon it. Starks across the ages bled on every inch of the North. They fought for their people, earning loyalty that couldn't be questioned. The Hungry Wolf Theon Stark took the fight to the Andals when they threatened the Kingdom. Even the darker periods of House Stark — such as Brandon the Burner or the legendary Night's King — were legends for a reason.

No Southerner could know the true greatness, the legends, and the weight of history that House Stark bore. They'd ruled since time immemorial. They guarded the North of the realm, the last bastion of the First Men's old ways. They fought back the first Long Night, and perhaps even other winters of the same kind if one read between the lines of history. The past was odd like that, prone to being forgotten, misremembered, and retold anyway, Jon knew.

Bran the Burner infamously torched the Northern navy after his father failed to return from a journey west into the unknown. It was said and remembered that the North lacked naval strength ever since. Yet, almost immediately after his rule came a great war. The War Across the Water lasted a thousand years. How, Jon questioned, could the North wage such a war if it lacked a navy? And the maester said the war ended after the Starks simply lost interest in it. A thousand years of skirmishes and battles, all for no gain? It simply seemed a touch too convenient in Jon's mind.

Such histories and truths weren't told in the South. Even in the North, they were half-forgotten or misinterpreted. The legendary Night's King of the Night's Watch, for example. The man who married a corpse bride was, as Old Nan told the story, a Stark. And perhaps there was more to his rule than a dark, sorcerous figure in history. Perhaps, just perhaps, Other blood ran through Stark veins ever since, giving them their connection to winter that allowed their line to rule unbroken for thousands of years. Jon hadn't forgotten the vision sent to him by the Old Gods, the vision of a Night's Queen just like the story who called for him to take up the mantle of his ancestor…

Jon was proud of his mother's lineage — much more so than his sire's — but that… might've been a bit too far. Still, he tried not to linger on the vision he'd been shown. It only led to strange, worrying thoughts and ideas. If he thought on it long enough, Jon could even feel ghostly, chilled fingers running across his skin and down his spine. Most worryingly, the touches were gentle and tempting, much as he imagined a lover's touch would be.

Every time that thought came to him, Jon tried his best to push it from his mind. What would he know of a lover? He'd never visited the brothels and whores of Winter Town with Theon. Not like Robb, though even his visits were rare things. Mostly, he went to pull Theon back by the scruff of his neck, not indulge in purchased pleasure. But unlike Jon, Robb was no true maid. Something his new blushing bride-to-be would undoubtedly come to appreciate on their wedding night.

Gods, that thought was still strange to Jon. Robb was to be married soon enough. He'd been betrothed to a princess. THE princess. Myrcella Baratheon was even more beautiful than her Queen Mother, and fortunately, with none of the Queen's twisted nature to her. Jon was happy for them, her and Robb both. It was simply strange watching his brother become a man by the day as the inevitable wedding slowly drew closer. It wouldn't happen for some time yet, but that didn't stop Robb and Myrcella from courting each other as a proper couple should.

And Jon himself… Jon had few prospects when it came to marriage, he knew. To the rest of the world, he was simply a bastard. A Stark bastard, to be sure, but bastard-born all the same. There was a certain irony there, a dark amusement to be found in his situation. In another life, Jon would've been a Prince of the Realm. He would've been a bachelor more eligible than even Robb. As it was, he was 'just a bastard' instead.

Father — for even if his mother loved the man, Jon would never think of Rhaegar as such — and Lady Catelyn knew differently. As did Robb, for Jon couldn't keep anything from his brother, no matter how hard he tried. They were practically twins and only grew closer after the truth of their relationship was revealed. Still, the rest of the family was kept in the dark for their safety, especially with the King in such close proximity. Jon didn't expect that to last much longer.

Father said that an understanding had been reached between himself and King Robert. At first, Jon was terrified. He thought he'd have to flee, perhaps even exiling himself beyond the Wall. Yet, never once did he think Father had betrayed him. And that faith was rewarded when the King said nothing of Jon's true heritage. If anything, he seemed to be putting more effort into knowing Jon — man to man, father to son that never was.

King Robert wasn't what Jon had been expecting. He knew Father felt the same as well. Even in the North, they'd heard tales of the drunken fat stag King and the Demon of the Trident he'd once been. Mostly from Lady Olenna, but also from Father when he spoke of his youth and the Rebellion that changed the face of Westeros. From those stories, Jon would've never expected the sober, surprisingly caring man who arrived at Winterfell.

With the magical alcohol of Hogwarts, Jon knew that Robert could've gone back to his drinking ways. But he didn't. He chose not to. For his children — Myrcella and Tommen, at least — more than anything else. Even Father found it impressive how the man had changed for the better. And he was better, Father said. Better even than the young man Father knew from their days at the Eyrie.

The King was trim and powerful. He cut an imposing and impressive figure — tall, strong, and clear-eyed. He doted on his two youngest children, trained with the men, and reminisced with Father. If Jon didn't know better, he would've never known the man was King at times. He was genuinely charismatic and hard not to love. And he was quick to love in return. If you did well by him, he'd do well by you.

Of course, Jon didn't know how much of that was new with the King's changes. Father seemed to think it was a return to form for his foster brother, though, so Jon trusted his opinion. Honestly, he had trouble imagining the fat stag King in the man he now knew. What he could imagine, however, was how a man of charisma and battle could be strangled by a decade and a half under the crown. A decade and a half without direction, without a single whim or indulgence unmet. Jon doubted he would fare any better, and he could certainly see why it took magic to pull King Robert out of his spiraling well.

From what Jon had seen, King Robert thrived in revelry and relationships. Not duty and responsibility. He could coax a mute to laughter. He could crush any foe put before him. But he was shite and then some at dealing with problems he couldn't smash or befriend.

It seemed the Queen was both of those things for King Robert. The royal couple shared no love between them. That much was clear for anyone with eyes. It was a miracle that they'd managed to have three children together. Well, perhaps not entirely, Jon thought. The Queen was undeniably beautiful. It was everything else about her that dulled and tarnished her shimmering gold.

Still, Jon could scarcely comprehend how things turned out. It was… madness. Pure madness. Perhaps literally, for Jon was sure the Queen had snapped when she called her magic against the King. She practically spat on him, on her husband, on her family, on the crown. For a few terrible moments, she'd controlled the King like a literal puppet, pulling invisible strings with her voice and magic. Jon didn't even want to imagine the damage she could've done if she hadn't snapped and laid herself bare then and there.

As it was, the realm was saved from her depredations. And the world was better for it. She'd lost the privilege of her tongue, only keeping the physical organ for the sake of appearances. When they returned to the capital, she'd be locked in the Red Keep's Maidenvault, and Jon imagined the King might just throw away the key. Until then, she was similarly confined. It was only by her daughter's pleas for mercy that she escaped more literal shackles or even the headsman's block.

And truthfully? Jon didn't miss her one whit. The royal visit to Winterfell only proceeded more smoothly in her absence. Robb's tourney was held, and many a merry were made. Even the Crown Prince was more bearable without Queen Cersei whispering poison in her eldest son's ear. The difference was slight — practically unnoticeable — but the fact that Joffrey had agreed to participate in the melee at all said enough.

'Didn't stop Robb and I from stomping him and his kingslaying uncle, though,' Jon chuckled to himself in the warm waters of the hot spring, his eyes and his muscles pleasantly lax. 'Starks: one, Lannisters: nill.'

There, in the hot springs concealed in the Winterfell Godswood, Jon felt at peace. The air was crisp on his bare skin, but the waters kept him plenty warm. He'd cleansed himself before getting in, as was the custom, and so he could simply soak like some queer parody of a stew. Yet it seemed that his peace was not to be forever.

He didn't hear anyone approach, but the waters rippled around him as someone else joined him in the small hot spring, one of many with steam and well-placed rocks and trees giving the illusion of privacy between them. Jon thought nothing of it at first. He'd told Robb where he was going to be, and it wasn't terribly unusual for House Stark to frequent the hot springs together. He opened his eyes and mouth to greet his brother. The greeting died as a choked gurgle on his tongue.

Contrary to his expectations, it wasn't Robb who joined him then. The Stark who joined him had brighter red hair than Robb, bluer eyes, and was altogether much, much fairer in Jon's eyes… The steam from the hot spring in the crisp air was suddenly almost blinding. Yet through it, Jon saw… Sansa — just as naked as him and unable to meet his eyes as she settled nervously into place in the small pool they now shared.

"Burglelurgleher…!" Jon felt himself speak in tongues more than he heard it, for suddenly, the roar of blood in his ears was deafening.

If Sansa didn't haunt his dreams before that moment, she certainly would after. She was pale of skin and so smooth that Jon couldn't describe the sight that graced his desperately grasping mind. She was flawless and seemed to glow amongst the steam. Suddenly, Jon knew why red hair was kissed by fire. Against the pale, perfect skin of Sansa's neck, it seemed to burn.

His eyes roamed down and down into the water they shared. A slender body greeted him. By the gods, she was fair. Fair and slender and slight enough that Jon could just pick her up and hold her forever in his arms. Fairer than anything he'd ever seen. Only the inhumanly beautiful Night's Queen from his vision compared to Sansa in Jon's mind — one kissed by fire, and the other, kissed by ice.

Jon found his eyes stuck, unable to descend any farther due to water and steam, and he just about cursed the gods. But he didn't, for the final sight granted to his unworthy eyes roused him below the water, sending desire and need pumping through his veins. The soft swell of Sansa's breasts. Pert, pillowy perfection, free and unsupported but just as perky in the water as they were in her dresses. Her skin was as smooth, soft, and supple as driven snow and practically as white as well. All except for a beautiful spreading flush upon her chest and two cherried peaks, stiff and standing so that Jon could practically hear them begging for his lips upon them.

When Jon tried again, his tongue answered him with a tone of awe and damn-near divine reverence, "By the gods…"

"H-Hello, Jon…" Sansa stuttered softly, her voice almost lost in the steam. "D-Do you mind if I… join you…? I-I hope you don't… b-but I will leave you if I must…?"

"My La-…" Jon cut himself off. "Gods, Sansa. You-… I-… We can't be doing this…! You cannot be here…! Lady Catelyn will skin me alive, and then Father will be waiting to take my head with Ice himself!"

Sansa seemed to take strength in his flustered state, giggling, "Whyever so, dear brother? We are merely bathing together… yes…? You would not have… other ideas in your mind, would you…?"

"Gods," Jon just about groaned. "What has possessed you so, Sansa…?!"

He found out what drove Sansa soon after as Lady Cho whisper-shouted from somewhere nearby, "Ganbatte, Sansa! Ganbatte! Go, JonSa, go! Incest is, in fact, wincest!"

Lady Fleur didn't even bother with whispering, "Be bold, Sansa, my pupil~! Do not return until you make him acknowledge you as a woman~!"

… Truly, Jon should have known. His eyes shot open to scan their surroundings so that he might glare at the encouraging intruders, but he found nothing. And it quickly became apparent to him that even the prospect of being watched by queer voyeurs wasn't enough to quell the fire within. Below the water, his rod grew firm and strong, standing upright from his body so that it might breach the surface with the object of his desire so close at hand.

Jon was weak, it turned out. Oh, so weak, when it came to Sansa. Her perfection left him gasping and grasping for more, like a man dying of exposure. Just a few feet, and he could have her. He could seize her body as his and ravish her over and over until neither of them could bear to leave the hot springs or each other's embrace ever again. He could quench his fires inside her and make her wholly and utterly his.

The thought brought such excitement and satisfaction to his soul that his cock lurched, and the water rippled with it. He held strong against the urge, but it was a near thing — made even nearer when he forced his eyes back to Sansa. Her face was as red as he'd ever seen it. She nibbled at her lip, an action that shouldn't have been nearly as sexy as Jon found it then. Her chest — her glorious teats — practically heaved with every breath she took. Her eyes… were locked on him below the water line, with a fire to match Jon's burning within them.

"Sansa…" Jon said, a warning in his voice. Jon didn't know which of them it was truly directed at…

"Hmm~?" Sansa hummed, very much distracted with enjoying the 'sights' of the hot spring. "Yes, my love?"

The term of endearment silenced anything Jon was going to say. It was as if the breath and words were driven from his lungs and mind with two simple words. He found himself open-mouthed and floundering, even as his ego swelled to unforeseen heights. Sansa, it seemed, only realized her own words a few moments too late.

Her eyes went wide, and she stuttered almost frantically to correct herself, "Eeep~! I-I mean-!… My love-ly… weather we're having today, isn't it?!"

Jon could have laughed… if his lungs were actually working normally. Instead, he wheezed as if every word he said pained him, "I… don't think… this is a terribly appropriate, Sansa… You are a… true Lady… I'm merely a bastard… Unseemly doesn't even begin-…"

Sansa cut him off fiercely, "Don't you dare! You know nothing, Jon Snow! Truly, nothing if you think I care one whit for your birth. I know who you are, and I know who I am. And I know what I want, regardless of what anyone else says! A pox on propriety!"

"Heh," Jon couldn't help but laugh. "I never thought I would hear those words from your mouth, Sansa."

"Hmph~!" Sansa crossed her arms and turned up her nose as if they weren't currently naked and sharing a bath together. "Well, I will not have my romance smothered in the crib like an unwanted babe. Now, I came here with a mission. And I have no intention of leaving until I see it done."

The haughty, no-nonsense tone only made her more alluring in Jon's eyes. He couldn't stop his lips from twitching into a slight, amused smirk, "And what exactly is this mission of yours, my Lady?"

"I-I am to make you see me as a woman… Your woman, if possible…" Sansa said, her confidence fading as she suddenly seemed to find the steam off to the side oh-so mesmerizing.

Again, Jon couldn't help but laugh, "Ha! I assure you, Sansa, I haven't seen you as anything else for some time now. If you doubt me, I believe the… evidence… should speak for itself."

"Oh," Sansa blinked, breathless and seemingly caught completely off guard by Jon's confession. "O-Oh~… Y-Yes, I suppose that is rather a lot of… evidence… Rather a lot, indeed… Yet perhaps… Perhaps I should… confirm its veracity for myself…?"

Then, it was Jon's turn to blink, "Sansa? What do you-? Hnnuuhhh!"

He was barely given any chance to react or question. Sansa reached across the short distance between them. Dainty, beautiful hands gripped him through the water. Merely hesitant fingers at first. Then, a soft palm. Then Jon was wrapped in a warmth he'd never known. And though Sansa only touched a 'small' portion of him, he felt her touch cover his very soul. Not just his achingly hard cock that pulsed as if trying to match the heartbeat in the fingers that now surrounded it.

The gods were kind. They were cruel. Jon felt himself throb between his sister's fingers, against her palm, his soul clutched in her grip. The taboo only made it that much more tantalizing. Something about it set his blood racing through his veins, instinctive pleasure rising to the occasion so that he may never question the truth of his feelings on the matter. It should've been sick, scandalous, shameful, something! It wasn't, not to Jon's mind. It just felt right. So right that it almost hurt.

'Oh, Gods,' Jon's mind exalted. 'I really am half-dragon…'

He would've given Sansa anything at that moment. Just then, he knew why Theon loved his whores so. At the same time, he knew that no whore could ever hope to compare to Sansa. None could compare to his cousin, half-sister… sister in all but the most literal sense of the word. The dutiful, romantic young lady he'd grown up right beside could still surprise him, it seemed. Never would he have thought she could be so bold, so daring, so tempting that Jon thought to throw everything away for her.

Her surprisingly curious fingers explored his throbbing masculinity. She had to know that she shouldn't be doing this. That they shouldn't be doing it, for Jon found himself just as much a party to the sinful seduction as her. Yet her curious fingers quested ever onward. Up his shaft under the water — Gods, Jon had never hated a liquid more than in that moment… — until they brushed over his bell-shaped head. Back down with a gentle lover's caress. She gripped at his base, and Jon found his hips bucking without his direction.

His cock breached the water's surface. Sansa only brought herself closer until her face was right before his cock's head — the angry red just about matching her flushed cheeks and heaving pink breasts. Jon could feel her breath against his firm flesh and sensitive skin. Gods, he felt as if he was fit to burst — repressed and oh-so-fucking-stiff! Like impassioned tears, droplets of semi-clear fluid gathered at Jon's tip. And Sansa did the unimaginable.

She leaned forward, her lips falling open without hesitation. Only curiosity and something more as she was swept along in the moment just as Jon was. Her tongue — small and looking softer than anything Jon had ever known — peeked forth. It reached and reached, and time seemed to slow to a crawl with its curious approach.

Sansa wished to taste him. The realization almost physically struck Jon. He didn't even have time to groan before her tongue was upon him. An indescribable heat and softness graced his aching sword. Sansa gathered the fruits of his arousal on her tongue and gave a queer combination of hum and moan that left Jon yearning. It was too much. He whited out then and there in the hot spring with his sister's tongue at the tip of his cock.

Yet strangely, the release and relief he was expecting never came. He didn't burst or reach some elusive peak of pleasure. Instead, the steam of the hot spring thickened until it consumed him. And Jon found himself in a whole other place entirely. Confusion plagued his roused mind. His cock was still so hard that it ached. Now, the rest of his muscles tensed to match.

'Some magic is at work,' Jon thought. 'Wicked and cruel sorcery, no doubt, for it stole me from my very climax. Hogwarts would never. Sansa couldn't, even if she wished to torture me for some gods-forsaken reason. No, this was done by parties unknown…'

Looking around, Jon saw nothing but ice. Yet, he felt no chill. If anything, he felt almost… welcome in wherever he'd ended up. Two pillars occupied his vision, with an arch between them that gave way to a spectacular view in the distance. Jon found himself in an impossible pavilion made of pure frozen crystal. The view showed untouched mountains of dark rock and white snow looming upon the horizon. The kind that Jon could only imagine beyond the Wall in its most distant and unexplored regions.

A sinking realization settled in Jon's mind. Yet he knew it to be true in his heart. Ice rose in his veins, crackling against the fires of his prior arousal. Neither lost out in favor of the other. The ice was almost familiar — as if responding to something in his new surroundings. It was as if he… knew this place. As if he belonged when he knew he truly didn't.

Pleasantly chilled fingers trailed from his shoulder down his bare arm, reaching for his hand. Jon jumped away from the touch, turning to come face to face with the face from his dreams. The face that haunted him ever since his first vision of ice and snow. The face that he swore looked back at him from within melting icicles and distant snow banks. Now, before him once again, the Night's Queen smirked at him in all of her inhuman beauty.

Her voice tinkled like icy chimes, "Naughty, naughty Snow~… Did you not realize that I had staked my claim~? You and that little warmblood chit~… Didn't you realize that you're not hers to take~? You are mine, Jon Snow, Son of Ice and Fire~. Your song is a duet that only we shall sing together~."

Jon took a wary step back from the being that was both tempting and terrifying in equal measure, "This… This isn't real…"

"Isn't it~?" The Night's Queen followed.

"I'm not truly here," Another step back, but Jon's denial came out stronger the second time.

"Aren't you~?" The Night's Queen crept after him like freezing ice. "Who's to say where a warmblood stands in a blizzard, after all~…"

"You can't hurt me," Jon said firmly as something behind him blocked his path.

"Can't I~?" The Night's Queen's grin grew as she caught him.

An elegant and much too gentle hand pushed Jon backward from his chest. He fell into what felt like powdered snow. A bed. One of ice and Other craftsmanship. Jon found himself lying there, naked as the day he was born, with the Night's Queen of Legend looming above him, looking all too much like a scorned lover for Jon's liking. Gods, why was he still just as hard as he'd been in the hot spring?!

"You know nothing, Jon Snow~…"

An incredulous laugh escaped Jon's lips despite his situation, "There it is again. I should have you know that I know plenty of things!"

"Do you?" The Night's Queen asked. "Do you know the glory of your ancestors? On both sides of your birth? Of ice and fire? Do you know the doom your sire's kin brought unto the world? The still-standing monuments of your mother's line? Do you know the prophecy that you embody with your nature? The false hopes and unwanted responsibilities pinned upon you by the very gods? Do you know that it's all complete… utter… warmblood… bullshit…?"

As she questioned him, the Night's Queen crawled onto the bed. Each question brought her farther atop him. Each was punctuated with another slinking, seductive movement. Her breasts brushed along his hard length, and he very nearly found himself slotted into her cleavage for a fleeting, torturously tempting moment. The brief touches were chilled and oh so different from Sansa's. Yet they still sent shivers of pleasure up his spine. When she stopped with her eyes level with his, the Night's Queen was practically straddling Jon. His cock throbbed against the delicious curve of her ass, but it was her words that hit him the hardest.

"You… You're not making any sense," Jon whispered, unsure what drove him to speak in hushed tones as if they were already lovers.

The Night's Queen stroked his face, and Jon couldn't bring himself to pull away from her gentle touch, "Then, you truly know nothing, Jon Snow. But worry not. I can fix that~…"

"Fix it how…?" Jon asked.

The Night's Queen chuckled, a husky sound that ate away at Jon's resistance, "I could make you great, My King~… I could make you the only warmblood that even slightly matters. You are of ice, just as you are of fire. You would live well into the forever winter to come. Together, we shall rule the night."

"The Long Night…" Jon realized with a horrified whisper. "You intend to finish what your kind started so long ago… You intend to return, to try again, to plunge the realms of man into darkness…"

"Oh, my dear Snow~," The Night's Queen purred. "We never stopped, never left, not truly. Your histories are incomplete if you think your ancestors won decisively. No, cold blood flows through your veins, Son of Stark. A pact was struck, and now, the Always Winter Court comes calling again. I intend to be at its head. And for that, I need my Night's King of Ice and Fire~…"

"I'll never join you," Jon denied with all the strength left in his heart. "My place is with man. I'll stand with my kind against you and yours until the bitter end. If you need me so much, I'll run. I'll run so that you may never have me as you claim, Demon!"

"Dear Snow~," The Night's Queen practically snarled a vicious grin. "You'll never escape. Your own gods won't allow you to. They aim to corral you with prophecy such that you will always find your way back to me. The Night shall not be denied its King and Queen. And I shall not be denied, either. You are mine~! Mine, Jon Snow, and not even fate will resist my claim."

"Prophecy…?" Jon almost laughed. "What could the gods possibly want with a bastard in all but truth?"

"Oh, their bullshit warmblood schemes and ideas," The Night's Queen waved dismissively. "But even if it holds no weight, they will aim to make it so. They will force you into their mold, Jon Snow. With me, you could be free. Free from warmth and its deceptive cruelty. Free from gods and their so-called 'fate'.

"I could give you so much, Jon Snow~… You need only find me and take it~…"

As she purred her offer, the Night's Queen ground her hips against Jon. His cock stood straight and stiff beneath her ass, hugging the curve so tightly that Jon thought himself to be inside of her for a brief moment. Her clothes between them seemed to melt away like so much ice, and suddenly, that brief thought seemed more a premonition than a mistake.

Soft, smooth, chilled skin slid across his heat. Against all of his better judgment, his hands reached for her slender waist, aiming to push her hips down onto him so that the pleasurable torture might cease. Her body welcomed his touch — molding and shaping to his desperate fingers so unlike ice. He slipped between her legs for a moment, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. Never before had he found a valley more enticing. It was as if the core of her inhuman womanhood was inviting him to simply take it.

The Night's Queen leaned onto him, her chest against his as their lower halves danced so close to connection, and whispered in his ear, "Come north, Jon Snow~. Come to the Court of Always Winter and take what is yours by right through me and my claim upon you.

"Or… I will be forced to come south instead. And I will not be kind if I must come to claim you for myself… I will rip you from your walls and steal you away like your warm-blooded princesses. I will not be denied. One way or another, you will be mine, Jon Snow. You've always been mine. No matter what that warmblood chit of yours seems to think~…"

The reminder of Sansa jolted into his mind, and Jon flinched. His hands flew away from the Night's Queen's hips as if burned by the cold. He bucked as fire warred with ice in his blood. The Night's Queen only grinned down at his struggles as if indulging a futilely misguided fool. Her hips ground down on their own, threatening to consume Jon whole in the most pivotal moment…

Then, Jon began to fall. Down, down, down through the bed of ice, through the reality of his vision itself. The Night's Queen's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. She panicked, reaching for him, and Jon took no small pleasure in the sight, for already, it was too late. He took whatever victory he could get against his impossible seductive foe.

"Easy now, Jon. I've got you," A familiar voice said as Jon's vision was usurped by something else entirely.

"C-Cedric…?" Jon asked, feeling woozy, nauseous, and sick all at once. Everything seemed to hit him just then. He didn't even think he had a physical body, but that fact didn't seem to matter much to his urge to retch everything he'd eaten that morning.

Instead of ice, Jon only saw green. A Green Dream, all around him, as if winter never existed at all. Beside him, Cedric steadied Jon. Thankfully, the older Wizard paid no real mind to his current state of dress. Or the fact that Jon was moments away from throwing up all over him. Cedric — steady as ever — simply rubbed small circles across Jon's back, soothing him until he could stand on his own and speak again.

"What happened…?" Jon asked again. "How are you here? Where is here?"

"You fainted rather suddenly, mate," Cedric said. "Sansa was worried sick about you. She probably still is. Cho fetched me and sent me in after you."

"In… after me?"

"Yup. Cho seems to think your consciousness was stolen from you there. Visions, am I right? The astral realm can be rather tricky and unpredictable at the worst of times. Luckily, I know my way around a vision or two. Did I ever tell you about the time I was elected Minister for Magic almost entirely because I got myself caught up in a certain vision of parody?"

"No…?" Jon looked at him queerly. "That seems like a strange basis for a system of government."

"That didn't stop the mandate of the masses," Cedric chuckled.

After a moment, Jon shook his head back onto more pressing matters, "Where are we now?"

"Well, I pulled you into the Weirwood Network from that odd icy place. What was that about anyway?" Cedric asked.

"Gods, the Night's Queen is likely furious," Jon shuddered slightly. "It seems… that the Others have taken an interest in me… Or at least, she has. She wishes for me to be her Night's King…"

"Ah. That's rough, buddy," Cedric nodded matter-of-factly but not unsympathetically. "Need some help?"

"Just… like that?" Jon stared incredulously.

"Sure, why not?" Cedric shrugged. "I'm always up for helping my friends however I'm able. Gotta live up to the 'Puff spirit. A hero can hardly adventure alone, after all."

"…" Though Jon was touched by the steadfast support, he didn't quite know what to say to that, and so he changed the subject. "You said we're in the Weirwood Network?"

"It seemed like the safest place to take you for the moment while we figure out how to wake you up," Cedric explained. "The astral realm is not a kind place. Neither is the Weirwood Network, for that matter, but you should have some protection here because of your belief in the Old Gods."

"I… don't know what I was expecting, but I don't think it was this," Jon said slowly, taking in his surroundings in more detail.

The Green Dream seemed to stretch on forever. Trees and grasses and shrubs came and went quite literally before their eyes. Jon watched one grow from seed to sapling to towering and mighty oak in the span of a few blinks. Time had no meaning here. Or perhaps that should be said of reality itself. Sense and reason were as transient as the trees themselves.

As the environment shifted and changed, heedless of their presence and mortal minds, spirits walked the endless woods. Some were merely blurry shapes that could just barely be men. Others were whole and clear, with easily distinguishable features. Birds and beasts frolicked and hunted between the trees. Even the trees themselves seemed to sway with the memories of past days. Through it all, none of the other occupants of the Green Dream acknowledged Jon and Cedric at all.

A man in ancient bronze armor stalked with a wicked axe in his hand. He passed right through Jon, and Jon jumped. Yet… nothing. The man didn't react, not so much as distracted from his unnamed eternal quest. And Jon felt nothing other than the sight of the man to tell him anything had happened.

There were stranger sights still to be had in the Green Dream. A massive mushroom — about as tall as Jon's knee — sprouted legs and trotted off deeper into the forever forest. It was followed by a line of its impossible kin, looking so much more like ducklings than the fungi they were. Jon couldn't stop himself from gaping at the strangely idyllic scene.

Then, a pure white rabbit came hopping down a tree's trunk as if it were solid ground. It paused at eye level, staring at Cedric and Jon with beady eyes. Its pink nose twitched. Without a word — why was Jon expecting it to say something…? — It hopped off to another tree, maintaining its perpendicular sense of inertia. For a moment, it stopped to look back at them as if waiting for them to follow.

Cedric chuckled at the sight, "Well, you know what they say… When in doubt, follow the white rabbit."

"That's not a saying," Jon muttered. "That's never been a saying."

Unfortunately, Jon wasn't given much of a choice in the matter. Cedric was already following the white rabbit as it led them to parts unknown. Jon wasn't eager to try his luck on his own. Through the forever forest, they followed. Past more and more ghosts and memories. Past strange scenes of man and beast reversed in their hunts. Past tree trunks with miniature lands carved into their bark, complete with tiny rivers, valleys, and even settlements. In the leaves, Jon could swear he saw a feline head with a wicked, unnatural grin watching them. Yet they pressed on until they came to a clearing where there'd been none before.

The strangest scene of all awaited them there. Untamed wilderness faded, and a certain sense of order took its place. Even with the order, the Green Dream's surreality didn't fade. A tea table occupied the center of the clearing. It was well-stocked and in use, as if a Lady's tea party was being held where it had no right to be. Strangest of all were the people in attendance: an obvious avatar of the Old Gods — with skin of bark, stiff and jilted movements, and Weirwood coloring — and a familiar, ancient old man wearing robes the likes of which Jon had never seen.

"Very good," The old man nodded. "Now, greet our guests, my friend."

"Guest. Rights," The Old God avatar croaked in a voice like leaves fluttering in the wind.

"No, no," The old man sighed patiently. "Humans rather like their manners and polite rituals. There's a bit more to it than just offering Guest Rights. Try saying 'Hello' first. 'Welcome', even."

"Hello first. Welcome even," The avatar parroted. "Guest. Rights."

"Better," The old man allowed. "But you could still use some work."

While the expression was subtle, the avatar seemed to preen at the praise. But even with the eccentric exchange playing out in front of him, Jon could only focus on the man's robes. A terrible beast that was half dragon, half snark, and half grumpkin rampaged across the cloth. No one else seemed to pay it any mind, but Jon's focus was snagged.

"Headmaster Dumbledore? What are you doing here?" Cedric asked curiously.

Dumbledore chuckled, "Oh, I just happened to be in the neighborhood for my own purposes. My friend here noticed your intrusion, and I thought it would be good to invite you for a cuppa tea before you leave again."

"Guest. Rights," The avatar repeated again.

"Remember, bread and salt, not whatever you have on hand," Dumbledore kindly reminded. "Humans can be picky like that."

Bread and salt were offered as the Old Gods personally served up their own traditions. Cedric took up the offer, sitting at the table with his headmaster. Jon hesitated slightly, his eyes still unable to leave the beast on Dumbledore's robes.

"Come now, young Jon. Sit with us," Dumbledore invited again, his eyes twinkling. "There is no need to beware the Jabberwock, my boy. These jaws won't bite, and these claws won't catch. You need not worry for the frumious Bandersnatch."

Slowly, Jon took the offered seat, and Dumbledore smiled, "Wonderful. I'd introduce you to my friend, but I'm afraid they don't truly have a name to go by just yet."

"Old…?" The avatar offered.

"That's not so much a name as it is an adjective," Dumbledore corrected.

"Gods…?" The avatar tried again.

Dumbledore sighed indulgently, "We'll work on it. For now, we'll see to our guests. Tell me, what troubles you and young Jon, Cedric?"

"Icy visions and grasping Queens," Jon answered, shuddering at the memory. "And 'bullshit' prophecy as well, it seems. Though how much I can trust her words, I remain unsure."

"Prophecies are never what they seem, young Jon," Dumbledore advised. "The future is not some set path. Even just knowing hints and portents of it can change everything. Future visions are never wholly clear and always tainted by personal perception. I'd suggest you take everything you hear about the future with caution and an appropriate level of wariness."

Jon went to nod gratefully, but the avatar cut him off, insisting, "Promised… Prince…! Son of North and Valyria…! Ice and Fire…!"

The sudden stiffness in Jon's spine must have been telling, for Cedric laid a supportive and protective hand on his shoulder, "Perhaps staying for long isn't the best idea after all. We shouldn't keep Cho and Sansa waiting. Thank you for the hospitality, but I believe Jon needs the chance to rest and recover after his prior ordeal."

"That's likely for the best," Dumbledore sighed before turning a stern, disappointed gaze onto the avatar. "That was very rude, my friend. I see we still have much work to do before I feel comfortable allowing you to entertain guests on your own. As a general rule, prophecies are best kept out of polite company."

Shockingly, the avatar actually seemed to wilt at the chastisement. That was the final straw for Jon. After seeing it, he no longer felt the need to stay to potentially placate his gods. He stood slowly. Cedric stood with him. With a nod, Cedric pushed him, and Jon found himself falling again. Falling out of the Green Dream and, blessedly, back into his real body.

Opening his eyes, Jon found himself lying with his head on Sansa's lap as she worriedly stroked his hair and stared down at him. Cedric was in a similar position with Cho nearby. The moment Sansa saw him wake, her eyes lit up with joy and relief. Jon opened his mouth to say something… and found himself kissing Sansa's bare navel as she hugged him tightly to her.

"I thank the Old Gods and the New that you're okay, Jon…" Sansa whispered, clutching him like a lifeline.

With Sansa's warmth practically surrounding him, Jon knew his choice was decided. The Night's Queen could never, never compare. His arms found their way around her as well, and Jon simply enjoyed the pleasant heat and gentle intimacy of a 'warmblood chit'. At least, he did until Cedric woke as well and said something to interrupt Jon and Sansa's moment.

"So… Prince Jon, huh?"

At that, Sansa let out something that sounded halfway between a gasp and a moan, as if a maidenly dream of hers was on the verge of being realized. Jon felt her abdomen flex and clench against his cheek. He sighed. Did he even want to know what that was about…?

"Just like a song…~!" Sansa exclaimed with a breathless, giddy exhale.