He is tempted by his desires

Jon lingered by the heart tree, the transformed leaves crumpled in his fist, their unnatural vitality a mocking weight against his palm. The godswood's hush pressed in, amplifying the thunder of his pulse, as if the ancient weirwoods themselves leaned closer to witness his turmoil.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon tried to will the power to evaporate like morning mist, but instead, an insidious whisper slithered through his thoughts—his own voice, twisted into temptation, painting visions of what might be.

What if you spoke the words?

The thought coiled around him, seductive as the temptation for power.

Imagine claiming your place as a trueborn Stark, no longer the shadow haunting the edges of feasts and family councils. Robb's equal in every right, not just in swordplay or shared laughter, but in name and blood—seated at the high table without pitying glances, your voice carrying weight in the lords' deliberations.

Winterfell's halls echoing with your footsteps as heir, not outcast, the direwolf banner flying for you as much as any other.

Deeper the temptations burrowed, unearthing buried longings.

And your mother—who was she, truly?

Not the ghost of whispers, the servant girl or southern lady shrouded in shame, but revealed in clarity: her face materializing in the pool's reflection, eyes like yours, a story of love or loss spilling from lips that named you son.

No more nights staring into flames, piecing together fragments from Lord Stark's silences or Old Nan's evasive tales. Knowledge, warm and whole, filling the void that had gnawed at you since boyhood.

The visions swelled, vivid and relentless.

Winterfell yours outright—the great keep's towers piercing the sky under your command, hearths blazing with feasts where you presided, not served.

A life unbound by the shadow of your birth: a wife with hair like autumn leaves, children tumbling in the yards, their laughter banishing the loneliness that clung like hoarfrost.

Tourneys where you rode as champion, not bastard; hunts through the wolfswood where the pack answered your call alone.

All the warmth denied you—Lady Catelyn's chill gaze thawed to acceptance, siblings embracing you without the sting of illegitimacy. Power to reshape the slights, the exclusions, into triumphs.

Yet beneath the allure, a hollow ache bloomed, the fantasies exposing the raw edges of what he lacked: the easy camaraderie of true kinship, the unshadowed pride in his reflection, a future not forged in resignation but chosen freely.

The temptations clawed deeper, promising to mend it all with a single utterance, the world bending to your will like clay under the potter's hand.

Jon recoiled, fists clenching until his nails bit into skin, the pain a sharp anchor dragging him back.

Flinging the leaves into the pool, Jon watched the ripples distort the weirwood's weeping reflection.

No, he snarled inwardly, shoving the thoughts into the recesses of his mind like embers stamped underfoot.

Such power wasn't a gift but a curse, twisting desires into chains—he'd seen enough of ambition's rot in the training yard brawls and whispered court intrigues to know it devoured from within.

His gaze drifted toward the castle's distant silhouette, where Lord Stark would soon rise to prepare for the king's arrival.

Should he confess?

Lay bare this madness to the man who'd raised him with honour, if not full truth? The notion flickered, tempting in its simplicity—Father's steady counsel had guided him through every storm, from scraped knees to the ache of exclusion.

But doubt crept in, cold as the dawn breeze rustling the branches. Lord Stark, ever pragmatic, bound by the old ways—would he believe such a tale?

A dream-voice granting godlike sway over reality, proven by revived leaves?

It sounded like the ravings of a milk-sick fool or a charlatan peddling charms in the markets.

Dismissal would follow, perhaps a concerned frown and orders to rest before the journey north, chalking it up to nerves over joining the Watch.

Worse still, if belief took root—what then? Jon pictured the shift in those grey eyes, not to warmth but wariness, or outright revulsion.

A power to alter the world with words smacked of sorcery, the kind that toppled kings and invited the noose. Lord Stark, unyielding in justice, might see it as a threat to the realm's fragile balance, a bastard wielding chaos where honour demanded restraint.

Exile, imprisonment, or worse—a father's hand **** to protect the family from the monster in their midst. No, silence was the wiser path, at least until he understood the beast he'd been leashed to.