The Three Headed Titan Chapter 23 (Secrets in the Blood)

Rhaenys's hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She slammed the door to her chambers behind her, the heavy oak rattling in its frame. Her legs, so steady during the sparring match, now trembled like a newborn foal's. She pressed her back against the door, chest heaving, and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Two Eldians.

The voice still echoed in her skull, not heard but felt, as if someone had carved the words directly into her bones. She stumbled to her washbasin, splashing cold water on her face. The girl in the polished bronze mirror looked haunted—purple eyes too wide, olive skin flushed with more than exertion.

He knows. The bastard knows.

How? How could Jon Snow possibly know about her ability? She'd been so careful, so very careful since that horrible night in the mountains. Her mind lurched back to it, unwilling but unable to stop.

The shadowcat's claws raking across her palm, tearing through leather and flesh like parchment. The hot blood soaking her tunic. Oberyn's scream of rage as he drove his spear through the beast's skull.

Then... the impossible. Steam rising from her wounds like morning mist. The flesh knitting itself back together, leaving only smooth skin and Oberyn's shocked face.

Rhaenys sank onto her bed, fingers digging into the Myrish quilts. She'd made Oberyn swear on her mother's memory to tell no one. He'd agreed, though she'd seen the questions burning in his eyes. Since then, he'd been discretely researching, sending ravens to maesters under false pretenses, searching ancient texts. Nothing. No explanation for why his "daughter" could heal from mortal wounds.

Until today. Until Jon Snow's mismatched eyes had looked straight through her pretense and asked directly: "You can heal, can't you? Like me."

Like him.

Mother save me, he has it too.

Rhaenys could still feel the shock in her body when their hands had touched. He was like her. Whatever cursed magic ran through her veins ran through his as well.

But what did it mean? Eldians. She'd never heard the word before. It sounded ancient, foreign. Not Valyrian, not Common Tongue, not any language she recognized from her education.

A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.

"Rhae?" Tyene's voice drifted through the door. "Father wishes to speak with you."

Rhaenys quickly checked her reflection, smoothing her expression into something calmer. She couldn't let Tyene see her rattled. Her cousin was too perceptive, too willing to pry.

"Tell him I'll be there shortly," she called back, pleased her voice didn't shake.

"He says now," Tyene replied, and Rhaenys could hear the smirk in her voice. "You know how he gets when kept waiting."

Shit. Oberyn had the patience of a viper when it suited him, but not when he sensed something amiss with his family. He'd already been watching her too closely since the shadowcat incident.

Rhaenys changed quickly into a fresh tunic, Dornish silk in burnt orange that complemented her skin. She twisted her dark hair back into a simple braid, trying to look composed. Normal. Not like someone whose world had just tilted off its axis.

Should I tell him about Snow?

The thought made her stomach clench. Oberyn would want to know everything—would probably want to approach the bastard himself, test him, study him. The Red Viper collecting information was dangerous enough. The Red Viper knowing there were others with supernatural abilities? That was a blade that could cut in any direction.

No. Not yet. Not until I understand more.

She found Oberyn in the solar they'd been given, standing by the window overlooking the training yard where she'd just fled from. He didn't turn when she entered, but she saw his reflection in the glass—those dark eyes that missed nothing.

"You fight well," he said mildly. "Both matches were impressive."

"The Mormont woman was strong but predictable," Rhaenys replied, forcing herself to pour wine with steady hands. "The bastard was... less so."

"Yes." Oberyn turned then, and his gaze was sharp as Dornish steel. "Very unpredictable. That jump he made—quite remarkable."

He saw. Of course he had. Oberyn probably watched every moment, cataloging each detail. Rhaenys took a sip of wine to buy time, the Dornish red sour on her tongue.

"Northern men are stronger than they look," she said carefully. "All that climbing through snow and ice, I suppose."

"Hmm." Oberyn moved closer, and she could smell his cologne—spices and citrus, uniquely him. "You seemed disturbed when you left. Did the Snow boy say something inappropriate?"

You can heal, can't you? Like me.

"Nothing worth repeating," she lied. "He was curious about Dorne. Many Northerners are—they've heard stories but never traveled south."

Oberyn studied her for a long moment. She met his gaze steadily, a lifetime of practice helping her mask the truth. Finally, he nodded.

"We'll speak more of it later. For now, I have news." His expression darkened, the casual uncle replaced by the Red Viper. "There's to be a feast tonight. All the great houses gathering to celebrate before the tournament begins."

"How delightful," Rhaenys said dryly. "Another chance to watch Robert Baratheon stuff his face while sitting on my—on the Iron Throne."

Oberyn's hand touched her shoulder, gentle understanding in the gesture. He never corrected her when she almost said 'my father's throne,' but they both knew how dangerous it was to say that word out loud.

"There's more," he continued. "Tywin Lannister has arrived."

The wine cup almost slipped in her grip, nearly spilling. "What? When?"

"This afternoon, while you were playing with swords. Three hundred men, I'm told. Including his little pet."

His little pet. The Mountain That Rides. The monster who had—

Aegon's head against the wall. Mother's screams.

"Breathe, little snake," Oberyn murmured, steadying her. "He won't touch you. No one knows who you are."

Jon Snow knows I'm something, she thought desperately. What if there are others who can sense it? What if—

"I'll be cautious," she said aloud. "Just another Dornish bastard paying her respects."

"Good." Oberyn's smile was all poison and promise. "Wear your finest dress. Let them see Dornish beauty and underestimate Dornish steel. And stay close to me—Tywin Lannister has a long memory and longer reach."

As he swept from the room to prepare, Rhaenys sank back onto a cushioned chair. Tonight she'd have to navigate a feast full of enemies while avoiding Jon Snow's knowing gaze. She'd have to smile at Tywin Lannister, the architect of her family's destruction, while Gregor Clegane feasted and was praised, the monster who raped and killed her mother and killed her baby brother.

All while carrying a secret that could destroy her—a power she didn't understand, shared with a Northern bastard who somehow knew exactly what she was.

Eldians, the voice had said. Two Eldians.

She was no longer alone with this curse. But somehow, that thought brought no comfort at all. Jon Snow had looked at her with recognition, yes, but also with questions. How long before he demanded answers? How long before others noticed what he had seen?

Stay away from me, she mentally pleaded to the bastard she'd never met before today. For both our sakes, stay far away.

But even as she thought it, she knew it was futile. Whatever force had brought them together in that vision—that moment of golden light and infinite sand—wasn't finished with them.

She could feel it in her bones, in the very blood that allowed her to heal: this was only the beginning.

Jon Snow

Jon was late.

He knew it, Father knew it, and judging by the tight line of Ned Stark's mouth when Jon finally entered the solar, it was not appreciated. The Warden of the North sat behind a desk covered in parchments—tournament brackets, supply lists, the endless minutiae of hosting half the realm's nobility.

"Forgive me, Father," Jon said, though the word still felt like stolen comfort in his mouth. 

"Sit." Ned's gray eyes studied him with that particular intensity that made Jon feel seven years old again, caught stealing lemon cakes. "You look distracted."

Distracted? Jon almost laughed. He'd just discovered another person with his impossible healing ability, heard Ymir's voice from nowhere declare them 'Eldians,' and watched a Dornish bastard flee from him like he carried the plague. Distracted didn't begin to cover it.

"The training yard was crowded," Jon said, settling into the chair across from Ned. "Lost track of time."

"Hmm." Ned shuffled through his papers, but Jon could feel him watching. Always watching, this man who'd raised him with honor and distance in equal measure. "I heard you sparred with the Dornish girl. Rhae Sand."

"She fights well," Jon said carefully. "Different from Northern styles."

"The Dornish often are different." Something flickered in Ned's expression—gone before Jon could identify it. "You'll be entering the melee, I assume?"

"Yes. And the joust."

Ned's eyebrows rose. "The joust? Jon, you've had perhaps a dozen lessons. The men you'll face have been riding at rings since they could hold a lance."

"I'm better on horseback than you think," Jon said, allowing himself a small smile. "You always said I rode like I was born to it. Remember when I was eight? You said you'd never seen anyone take to horses so naturally."

The strangest look crossed Ned's face then—sadness mixed with something else. Regret? Fear? It vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual stern mask.

"Natural talent won't protect you from experience," Ned said quietly. "Ser Jaime won't be jousting, thank the gods, but there's still the Knight of Flowers, Thoros of Myr, Bronze Yohn Royce..."

"I'll be careful."

"You'll be more than careful. You'll wear the best armor we can find, check your equipment twice, and—" Ned stopped himself, sighing. "And you'll probably ignore half my warnings anyway. You're stubborn as your—as any Northerner."

As my what? Jon wondered. My mother? Do you finally slip and tell me something real?

But he knew better than to press. That particular door had been barred his entire life.

"Speaking of different customs," Jon said, aiming for casual, "I was curious about something. The Dornish girl mentioned they don't scorn bastards there. Is that true?"

"It is." Ned leaned back, seemingly relieved by the change of subject. "Dorne has always been... unique in Westeros. They follow different inheritance laws, different customs. Prince Oberyn himself has nine bastard daughters he acknowledges proudly."

"And what about House Targaryen?" Jon asked, watching Ned's face carefully. "Did they have different customs about bastards?"

Ned went very still. "Why do you ask?"

Shit. Too specific. "Just curious. Being in the capital, seeing the Iron Throne... made me wonder about the dynasty that ruled for three hundred years."

"The Targaryens are gone," Ned said flatly. "Their customs died with them."

"But historically—"

"They practiced incest, polygamy, and fed their enemies to dragons." Ned's voice carried an edge Jon rarely heard. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

"I meant no offense—"

"None taken." But Ned's jaw remained tight. "Jon, the Targaryens were conquerors who believed themselves above common men. They called themselves the blood of the dragon, claimed divine right through fire and blood. Their customs are best left buried with them."

Blood of the dragon. The phrase stuck in Jon's mind like a thorn. Did dragon blood let them heal? Was that connected to whatever he and Rhae shared?

"Of course," Jon said, recognizing dismissal. "I should prepare for tonight's feast."

Ned nodded, already returning to his papers. "Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful around the Dornish. Prince Oberyn is called the Red Viper for good reason. Snakes are dangerous, even when they smile."

Especially when they run from you in fear, Jon thought, but only nodded.

The library of the Red Keep was a disappointment. Oh, it was grand enough—three levels of books and scrolls, tall windows letting in afternoon light, the smell of old parchment and binding glue. But after an hour of searching, Jon had found nothing useful.

He'd started with healing, looking for any reference to wounds closing with steam. The closest he'd found was an account of dragons cauterizing wounds with flame—interesting but useless.

The word 'Titan' led him only to the Titan of Braavos, that massive statue guarding the harbor. "Tall as mountains, striding across the world," one text claimed, but it was clearly poetic exaggeration about a stone monument.

Eldian. The word appeared nowhere. Not in histories, not in genealogies, not even in the extensive volumes on ancient Valyria that mentioned bloodlines Jon couldn't pronounce.

"Looking for something specific?"

Jon nearly jumped. A boy around his age with a round face stood behind him, arms full of books, looking curious and slightly apologetic for startling him.

"Just reading about tourneys," Jon lied, closing the useless tome on Braavosi architecture. "Trying to learn what I'm getting myself into."

The boy's face brightened. "Oh! I've read extensively about tournaments. Did you know the first tourney in Westeros was held at Oldtown? My family's seat, actually, though we weren't lords then..."

As he launched into exhaustive detail about tournament history, Jon's mind wandered to purple eyes and the feeling of electricity when their hands touched. Rhae Sand knew something. The fear in her eyes hadn't been confusion or ignorance—it had been recognition.

"Stop searching for answers," she'd probably say if he confronted her again. "Some secrets kill those who learn them."

But Jon had never been good at leaving mysteries alone. It was like a loose tooth—he couldn't stop prodding it, even when it hurt.

"...and that's why they stopped using war lances in 247 AC," the fat boy finished, looking pleased with himself.

"Fascinating," Jon said, having heard perhaps one word in ten. "Have you ever come across the word 'Eldian' in your reading?"

The boy's brow furrowed in thought. "Eldian? No, I don't think so. Sounds almost Valyrian, but not quite. Why?"

"Just something I overheard. Probably nothing."

"I could research it," the boy offered eagerly. "I love a good mystery in the stacks."

"No need," Jon said quickly. The last thing he wanted was a random boy getting tangled in whatever this was. "Just idle curiosity."

He left the boy to his books and made his way back to his chambers. The feast would begin soon, and he needed to prepare. Not just his clothes—his mind. He would watch Rhae Sand tonight, observe her, try to understand what frightened her so much.

We're the same, he thought, staring at his reflection as he dressed in his finest doublet—black wool with silver direwolves at the collar. His mismatched eyes stared back, one purple like twilight, one green like spring forests. Whatever we are, we're the same.

The question was whether that made them allies or enemies. And whether seven others truly existed out there, carrying the same impossible power in their veins.

Tonight, he would find answers. Even if he had to chase a frightened snake through a nest of vipers to get them.

The Feast

The Great Hall blazed with enough candles to rival the sun, turning the feast into a glittering spectacle of silk and steel. Jon sat wedged between Dacey Mormont and some Karstark cousin whose name he'd already forgotten, trying not to fidget with his wine cup. The Northern table was loud, boisterous, and currently engaged in a heated debate about whether bear or shadowcat made better pelts.

Jon didn't care about pelts. His attention kept drifting across the hall to the Dornish table, where Rhae Sand sat like a sunset given form—burnt orange silk, dark hair twisted up to reveal the elegant line of her neck, those damned purple eyes that wouldn't meet his.

She knew he was watching. He could tell by the way she angled her body away, how her laughs at Prince Oberyn's jokes seemed just a bit too bright. Every time their eyes almost met, she found something fascinating to study in her wine or the tapestries or literally anywhere that wasn't him.

Coward, Jon thought uncharitably, then immediately felt guilty. She was frightened, not cowardly. There was a difference.

"You're staring," Dacey murmured beside him, amused. "That Dornish girl has you twisted in knots."

"I'm not staring," Jon lied, dragging his gaze back to his trencher. "I'm observing."

"Observing her tits, maybe." Dacey's grin was wicked. "Can't say I blame you. If I preferred women, I'd be observing too."

"Dacey—"

"She is beautiful," Dacey continued, unbothered by his discomfort. "All that lovely olive skin, those exotic eyes. Very different from us pale Northern girls."

There was something in her tone—not quite jealousy, but close. Jon turned to face her properly, seeing the question behind her teasing.

"You're beautiful too," he said quietly. "Just... differently."

"How romantic. 'Differently beautiful.' Shall I swoon now or wait until dessert?"

Before Jon could respond, Domeric Bolton leaned forward from across the table, his pale eyes glinting with that unsettling intensity all Boltons seemed to possess.

"Tell me, Snow," Domeric said, voice pitched just loud enough for nearby lords to hear, "is it true you lifted that massive boulder near the Blackwater yesterday? The one they say took four men to move when they were clearing the field?"

"Rocks look heavier than they are when they're partially buried," Jon deflected. "Leverage does most of the work."

"Leverage." Domeric's smile didn't reach his eyes. "How fascinating. And here I thought it was just... unnatural strength."

The way he said 'unnatural' made Jon's skin crawl. But before he could respond, Greatjon Umber slammed his massive fist on the table, making cups jump.

"Unnatural? BAH!" The giant lord was already deep in his cups, face red as a beet. "Nothing unnatural about Northern strength! We're all strong as bears up here! I could lift three men myself!"

"Could you now?" Lord Manderly called out, chuckling. "I'd like to see that, Greatjon."

"Would you?" Greatjon stood, swaying slightly. "Then let's have it! Arm wrestling! Any man—or woman—" he nodded to Dacey, "—who thinks they can take the Greatjon's arm!"

The Northern table erupted in cheers and challenges. Jon saw his chance and took it.

"I'll try," he said, moving to sit across from the massive lord.

Greatjon laughed, delighted. "The bastard has balls! Come then, boy!"

They clasped hands, Jon's looking child-sized in Greatjon's massive paw. The crowd of Northern pressed closer, bets flying. Jon met Greatjon's eyes and let the tiniest smile cross his face.

Then he let himself lose.

Not immediately—that would be suspicious. He strained, let his arm shake, put on a good show of effort. But inch by inch, he allowed Greatjon to push his arm down until it touched the table.

As his arm touched the table, the Greatjon let out a victorious roar but then squeezed Jon's hand appreciatively. "By the gods, boy, you've got the grip of a man twice your size! Thought you might actually best me for a moment there!"

The massive lord then stood, raising his arms triumphantly. "But the Greatjon still stands supreme! I could lift three of you! Maybe four! With enough ale, I'll lift this whole bloody table!"

"Please don't," Dacey interjected dryly. "You'll throw out your back, and then who'll protect Last Hearth? Your ten-year-old son?"

"My son could take any Southern knight!" Greatjon declared, which started another round of boasting and arguing.

Jon retreated to his seat, rubbing his arm for show. Domeric Bolton watched him with those pale eyes, not buying the performance for a second.

"Interesting technique," Domeric murmured. "Losing so convincingly."

Before Jon could think of a response, the great doors opened with a crash that silenced half the hall. Tywin Lannister entered like winter itself—cold, inevitable, and bringing death in his wake. Behind him came his retinue, all crimson and gold, and among them...

The Mountain.

Ser Gregor Clegane entered the hall. He was less a man than a force of nature, all armor and muscle and barely leashed violence. The crowd parted before him like the sea before a ship's prow.

Most of the feast-goers went back to their conversations after a moment. Just another Western lord arriving late, albeit with an impressive guard. But Jon noticed things others missed.

He saw how Prince Oberyn's knuckles went white around his cup, though his expression remained lazily amused. He saw how several Dornish hands drifted to where spears would be, if weapons were allowed in the feast hall.

And he saw Rhae.

For just a moment, her careful mask slipped. Pure, concentrated hatred blazed in those purple eyes as she stared at the Mountain. Not the general dislike one might have for an enemy soldier, but something personal. Something that cut soul-deep.

What did he do to you? Jon wondered. Or to someone you loved?

The Mountain took his position behind the Lannister table, and gradually, the feast resumed its rhythm.

Jon tried to focus on the conversations around him, on Dacey's increasingly creative insults about Southern knights, on the truly impressive amount of wine Greatjon was consuming. But he kept feeling that pull, that awareness of Rhae across the hall like a lodestone drawing north.

When she finally slipped away from the Dornish table, heading toward the balcony doors, Jon waited exactly thirty seconds before following.

"Where are you going?" Dacey asked.

"Need air," he said. "Greatjon's drinking is making me dizzy just watching."

She laughed and turned back to her conversation with Lady Karstark dismissing him. 

The balcony door was slightly ajar, cool night air cutting through the feast's oppressive warmth. Jon slipped through, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

She stood at the far end, silhouetted against the stars, hands gripping the stone railing like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to earth. The moonlight turned her orange silk to silver, her dark hair to shadow.

"What do you want?" Rhae asked, not looking at him

"I need answers," Jon said. "That place we saw, that voice—"

"Keep your voice down!" Rhae hissed, glancing back at the hall. "You think we're alone? You think there aren't eyes everywhere in this cesspit?"

She was right, of course. But Jon couldn't help himself. After months of confusion, of fear, he'd found someone like him. Someone who might understand.

"Just tell me one thing," he said softly. "Can you do more than heal? Can you..." He struggled for words. How did you ask someone if they could become a monster? "Can you change?"

Rhae's brow furrowed. "Change? What are you talking about?"

The genuine confusion in her voice made Jon's heart sink. She didn't know. Whatever else they shared, she hadn't experienced that particular horror. Hadn't felt her body explode into something massive and terrible. Hadn't tasted blood and felt bones crack between fingers the size of tree trunks.

"Nothing," he said. "Forget I asked."

"No." She stepped closer. "What did you mean? What kind of change?"

"I said forget it."

"You brought up that place, that voice saying 'two Eldians,' and now you're asking about changing?" Her voice rose slightly. "What aren't you telling me?"

"What aren't you telling me?" Jon countered. "You ran from me today. You're avoiding me now. If we're the same—"

"We're not the same," Rhae said flatly. "We can't be."

"Why?"

"Because you're..." She paused, seeming to struggle with words. "You're North. I'm Dorne. You're a man. I'm a woman. You serve the Usurper—"

"I serve my father," Jon said sharply. "Lord Eddard Stark. Not Robert."

Something flickered in her eyes at that. "Your father. Of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She turned back to the railing. "Go back inside, Jon Snow. Dance with your Bear Island lady. Forget we ever touched hands. Forget what you saw."

"I can't," Jon admitted. "And neither can you."

Rhae's hands tightened on the stone. "Watch me."

"The Mountain," Jon said suddenly, not sure why. "You wanted to kill him when he walked in."

She went very still. "Everyone wants to kill the Mountain. He's a monster."

"It was more than that." Jon studied her profile, the way her jaw clenched. "Personal."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know rage," Jon said quietly. "I know what it looks like when someone imagines killing. You weren't just angry. You were—"

"Stop." Her voice was ice. "Whatever you think you know about me, you're wrong. We're not friends. We're not allies. We're two people with an unfortunate... similarity. Nothing more."

"Rhae—"

"We are both Bastards, both of us. That's all we have in common."

The words stung more than they should have. But before Jon could respond, voices drifted from inside—people approaching the balcony.

"Fuck," Rhae whispered, glancing between him and the door. The voices grew closer, and Jon recognized one—Cersei Lannister's honeyed venom.

"Tomorrow," she said suddenly, the words rushed. "The godswood at midday. No one goes there in this godless city." Her purple eyes bore into his. "We talk. Just talk. Nothing more."

"That's all I ask for,"

The door handle turned. Jon slipped back into the hall just as the Queen and her ladies emerged onto the balcony, their laughter sharp as breaking glass. His last glimpse was of Rhae, straight-backed and alone, pretending to admire the view as if her world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

Two Eldians, Jon thought as he made his way back to Dacey. And tomorrow, maybe I'll finally understand what that means. But he wasn't sure that he would. From what he understood, Rhae herself didn't know much about this. At least, he was no longer alone in this, and perhaps together they could find answers rather than separated.

But a tiny voice reminded him of what he became that night, and deep down, he wondered if seeking out this was not a good idea, especially if Rhae and seven others out there had the same ability.