Chapter Text
Barely five namedays and Jon Snow feels certain he shall never know the sixth.
Lady Stark had ordered him to help the servants. As was usual, her command exuded disgust, but was no more menacing than any other day. Jon was asked to deliver kindling to stoke the kitchen fires, a task that became more and more familiar as the year passed.
Today was different.
The storage shed with towers of chopped wood was burning hotter than the cook’s kitchen fires and tongues of flame licked ever closer to Jon’s bare skin. There was nowhere to go. The stacks against his back were starting to catch and the door was stuck no matter how hard Jon furiously beat his fists against the wood.
“Help!” Jon called one last time with all his strength before coughing harshly and uttering a weak plea. “Help..”
Jon whimpered as he huddled downward, frightened at the prospect of the pain that was surely moments away. A serving boy had burned himself at the smith’s forge and Jon had been horrified by the older boy’s pain. How much worse would it be for Jon when the fire swallowed him?
Lady Catelyn wouldn’t be sad when Jon died. Lord Stark’s wife all but forbade Jon to spend time with his siblings, often reminded Jon of his worthlessness, and arranged punishments when Jon’s sire was not around to see it, which was often.
Sansa was young and Jon liked her, but it was not so frequent that he was allowed in the toddler's presence aside from meals.
Robb would miss him probably. Most days Robb treated Jon differently than anyone else ever had. It was Robb that hugged Jon for the first time. It was Robb that spent time with him when Jon wasn’t occupied with chores around the castle. It was Robb that listened to Old Nan and Maester Luwin and made Jon feel like he was more than a servant at the dinner table.
Would Lord Stark miss him? Jon wasn’t sure and that made his stomach flutter unpleasantly. There had been a handful of occasions where his sire placed a hand on his head or his shoulder and his lips were upturned. Yet Jon had noticed the way his father’s eyes crinkled and his face transformed for Robb.
It was clear that Lord Stark loved Robb, but did he love Jon? The lack of certainty made his heart ache and–
So overcome by stressors internal and external, Jon missed his sleeve catching fire.
“No!” Jon shrieked wildly.
Yet the expected pain was absent. The only thing Jon experienced was a pleasant warmth that almost cocooned his flesh far more welcoming than any furs or blankets. Succumbing to bewildered curiosity, Jon observed the threads of his clothing becoming obsidian before disintegrating in the heat. No pain, just a wondrous warmth that felt inevitably welcoming.
Despite knowing the peculiarity of his situation, Jon’s fears were drowned by childlike wonder. Glancing at his feet, he wiggled his toes in the flaming boot.
He hopped once. Twice. Jon reached out and lifted a blackened log and ran his fingertips over the surface slowly succumbing to cremation.
Why not me? Fire hurts…but not me? Why?
The fire danced over his flesh and whispered a word, no–a name.
Aemon. Aemon. Aemon. Aemon!
Who was Aemon? Had the fire always talked? Were others unable to hear the name?
All at once, the crackling from the flames as they devoured the piles of kindling around him, were drowned out by shouts of alarm followed by several thuds against the outside wall of the small shack.
“By the gods!”
“You! Alert Lord Stark at once! You lot! Help me put this out!”
Jon felt confident he recognized the voice and so tried calling out again.
“Ser Rodrik?” Jon called out feeling discomforted.
“By the old gods! Someone is in there!”
“Look, the bolt is–”
“Lad! Can you hear me?” The confident boom of Rodrik Cassel eased Jon’s racing heart and diverted him from the strangeness of the situation.
“Ser Rodrik, it’s Jon! I’m stuck,” Jon called out, before adding uncertainly. “I’m okay though.”
How he was okay, Jon didn’t know, but he was hoping that wouldn’t matter overly much.
There were some relieved words and some expletives that would have had Lady Stark reprimanding the voices.
“Stand away from the doorway, boy. I’m coming!”
Backing away obediently, he is more relieved than startled by the splintering sound of wood before the door fell inward and exposed the winter landscape. Jon wasted no time scampering outside, the fire still eating at the scraps of his trousers and bits of his boots still clinging to his feet. Though the remnants of the fire seemed to die out as the harsh bite of wintery winds needled Jon’s exposed skin.
“By all the gods…what is–”
“It’s a miracle. No more no less. Keep your mouths shut until Lord Stark says otherwise!” Rodrik is shouting loud enough to alarm Jon who staggered backward, not that it seemed to matter as the master-at-arms is suddenly wrapping him inside his own cloak with a peculiar expression.
“Jon?” Something sounded off in the man’s voice, something out of place that summoned a lump to sit in the pit of Jon’s belly. “Here lad, you’ll be alright.”
“Rodrik!” Lord Stark’s voice boomed and with it, more shouts of alarm and torches approaching.
“Lord Stark, young Jon was caught in the fire. We need to get him inside right away, milord.”
“What?” Lord Stark’s voice was loud and almost vicious, which made Jon shiver and glance backward toward the partially burning shed.
Before Jon had the opportunity to protest, the hood of the massive man’s cloak was pulled up and over Jon’s face, obscuring his vision. When his fingers automatically reached to push it back, hands as large as a bear stopped him and squeezed warningly. Confused but unwilling to risk the big man’s ire, Jon dropped his hands back to his sides only to squeak when he was lifted into Lord Stark’s arms.
Freezing, Jon held himself perfectly still.
“Lord Stark.” Ser Rodrik’s voice had dropped to a whisper Jon could only hear due to their proximity. “The boy was on fire when he walked out and there isn’t a mark on him that I can see. And his hair is–”
My hair? A hand went to his hair finding he still felt it tickling his shoulderblades.
“Speak to no one about this and make sure the pair that were with you are not unsupervised. If anyone asks, Jon is being seen by Luwin.”
What was going on?
“I’ll make certain of it, Lord Stark,” he heard more than witnessed the large man stalking away and barking orders to the others.
The jolt of Lord Stark’s rapid footsteps kills the words in Jon’s mouth and he swallows harshly as rests his head against the fur mantle of the soft cloak under his cheek.
It rather suddenly feels impossible to stay awake. No matter how much he wishes to ask, his tongue feels thick and his eyelids droop. A thousand protests are quelled despite the desperation to have someone, anyone, explain to him the secrets of the fire.
Why he had not burned. Why fire whispers and–
Who was Aemon?