Return Of The Elden Lord Chapter 2

Return Of The Elden Lord Chapter 2:Welcome to the Academy

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For all the Stark family's shock at the reveal of his two wives, Jon wasn't surprised when out of all of them, it was Arya who walked boldly up to Ranni. While the others remained frozen in place—caught between awe and disbelief—his little sister approached the blue-skinned goddess with the same fearless curiosity she'd shown toward stray cats and stable boys. Jon smiled, his silver eyes warming at the familiarity of her defiance. Some things never changed, even when everything else had.

"You don't look like a doll," Arya declared, reaching out to poke Ranni's arm with one finger. The contact made a small sound, like flesh meeting flesh. "Jon said you were a doll. I thought you'd be made of porcelain or something." She scrunched her nose, examining the Empyrean from head to toe, her gaze lingering on the shimmering blue hair that seemed to capture starlight.

Ranni's ethereal features broke into genuine amusement, her celestial eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was a doll, once," she replied, her voice like chimes in a midnight breeze. "For centuries, my spirit inhabited a form crafted of wood and magic." She knelt gracefully to meet Arya at eye level. "But when I ascended as a goddess of the moon and stars, my form changed. I became as you see me now—flesh and blood, yet still touched by the void between worlds."

Arya's eyes widened. "Can you still do magic even though you're not a doll anymore?" The question hung in the air, childlike in its directness yet perceptive in ways only Arya could manage.

Jon glanced toward the high table where the rest of his family remained, their faces a portrait of various emotions. Robb and Theon, predictably, were staring at both women with undisguised appreciation—though their gazes lingered longer on Marika, whose divine beauty held a more immediate, carnal allure than Ranni's otherworldly elegance. Jon recognized the hunger in their eyes; he'd seen it countless times in the faces of men who underestimated what stood before them. The thought almost made him laugh. How quickly they'd learn, as he had, that Marika's beauty was merely the sheath that housed a terrible, magnificent power.

"The pretty one!" Rickon suddenly called out from Catelyn's arms, pointing at Ranni with a chubby finger. "The blue lady! She looks like stars!" The toddler squirmed, trying to free himself from his mother's protective grip. Catelyn held fast, her knuckles white against the fabric of Rickon's tunic, her eyes never leaving the two divine beings who had materialized in her home.

Ned Stark rose slowly from his seat, his hand unconsciously drifting to where his sword would normally hang. The gesture wasn't threatening—more the reflex of a man who had lived through rebellion and war. "Jon," he said, his voice steady despite the extraordinary circumstances. "You claim these women are your wives—and not merely women, but goddesses?" His eyes moved from Ranni to Marika, assessing them with the careful calculation of a man responsible for the safety of his family and his keep.

"They are, Lord Stark" Jon answered. "Would you care for a demonstration?"

Without waiting for Lord Stark's response, Ranni raised a slender blue hand. "Perhaps this might ease your understanding," she offered. The air around her fingers rippled like water disturbed by a skipping stone. A faint blue glow emanated from her palm, spreading outward in tendrils of light that crawled across the ceiling of the Great Hall.

The temperature dropped instantly. The fire in the hearth continued to burn, but its heat no longer reached them. Delicate snowflakes began to fall from nowhere, drifting lazily through the air before settling on the stone floor, the wooden tables, and the astonished faces of the Stark family. Arya laughed in delight, spinning with her arms outstretched as snow collected in her dark hair.

Marika, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward. Her presence was different from Ranni's—where the Moon Princess carried the cool serenity of distant stars, Marika radiated a terrible, golden heat. "The child speaks truly," she said, her voice resonant with power that made the very stones of Winterfell seem to tremble. "We are both more and less than goddesses." With a casual gesture of her hand, the snowfall vanished. The Great Hall shimmered and transformed around them, its grey stone walls replaced by gleaming columns of gold. The wooden beams overhead became an intricate lattice of precious metal, supporting a canopy through which radiant light poured down upon them all. Outside the windows, where the courtyard of Winterfell should have been, there now stood a grove of trees with trunks and leaves of pure gold.

Theon's mouth fell open. Robb managed to close his, but his wide eyes betrayed his shock. Catelyn clutched Rickon tighter, while Ned Stark stood utterly still, his face unreadable. Only Arya seemed unfazed, reaching out to touch a nearby golden column with fascination rather than fear.

With a snap of her slender fingers, Marika dispelled the changes. The familiar stone walls of Winterfell returned, warm and solid in their mundane reality. "We do not come to your realm as conquerors or saviors," she said, her golden eyes sweeping across each Stark in turn. "We come as family, through our bond with Jon Snow—or Jon Starborn, as he is known to us. The man who walked into oblivion and returned with the stars themselves as his crown."

The silence that followed Marika's display of power hung heavy in the Great Hall. Lord Eddard Stark's weathered face betrayed a complex mixture of emotions—wonder, apprehension, and the quiet dignity that had carried him through rebellion and rule. He drew a measured breath, his grey eyes finding Jon's silver ones across the hall.

"Jon," he said, his voice steady despite the extraordinary circumstances they found themselves in. "I am glad—we are all glad—that you have returned to us. When we found your blood in the godswood..." A shadow passed over Ned's face before he composed himself. "But I must ask, have you and your... wives... returned to stay permanently in Westeros? Or will you return to these Lands Between, where it seems you hold positions of great import?"

Before Jon could answer, Ranni stepped forward, her starlit hair drifting around her face as though caught in an invisible current. "Though my husband is Elden Lord by right of conquest and sacrifice," she said, her voice like moonlight on water, "we have chosen not to rule over the restored realm." Her four arms folded elegantly before her as she continued. "The Lands Between have known too much divine intervention. Its people deserve to find their own path forward, as all people should."

Lady Catelyn, who had remained silent until now, shifted Rickon in her arms. The look she gave Ranni was one of polite incomprehension. "Forgive me, my lady, but I don't understand. People….smallfolk need the guidance of royalty and nobility—those chosen by the gods to lead." Her chin lifted slightly, the Tully pride showing through. "It is our divinely given right and responsibility to show them the way."

Jon remained silent, watching the exchange with eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of gods. He knew what Ranni would say before she spoke; they had discussed this very philosophy during countless nights beneath alien stars. He had witnessed firsthand the consequences of divine tyranny.

Ranni regarded Catelyn with the patient disappointment of a teacher confronting a particularly stubborn pupil. "Lady Stark," she said softly, though her voice carried throughout the hall, "I have seen what becomes of those who believe in their divine right to rule. I have watched empyreans and demigods tear a world asunder fighting over the scraps of godhood. I have witnessed golden lords who claimed divinity crush all who opposed them beneath their righteous heels." Her celestial eyes flickered with an ancient sadness. "It is never great, my lady. Never beautiful. Only terrible."

The silence that followed was broken by Marika, who stepped forward, her golden hair catching the firelight. "To answer your question directly, Lord Stark," she said, her voice resonant with authority that made even Ned straighten his posture unconsciously, "yes, we shall remain in Westeros, and in the North specifically." Her gaze swept over each Stark in turn, measuring them in ways they could not comprehend. "This is where Jon's heart has always called home, despite his journeys beyond."

Eddard nodded solemnly, relief visible in the slight easing of his shoulders. "Then you are welcome to stay here in Winterfell. We can prepare chambers fitting for..." he hesitated, searching for the appropriate words, "...guests of your station."

Ranni shook her head, a gentle smile gracing her blue features. "You are most kind, Lord Stark, but we have our own place to stay. We require only a small space within your godswood, if you would permit it." Her smile deepened at the confusion on their faces. "The old gods of your forest will understand, even if you do not yet."

"You can't possibly mean to camp in the woods!" Robb blurted out, his voice caught between concern and incredulity. He glanced at Theon, whose expression mirrored his own bewilderment. "Winter is coming, and even with your... abilities, surely you deserve better than sleeping beneath trees."

Jon laughed then, a sound that startled his family—so familiar yet different, like the echo of the boy they knew resonating through the man he had become. "We won't be camping, Robb," he said, silver eyes glinting with amusement. "Though I appreciate your concern. Tomorrow, you will understand. Some things must be seen to be believed—as I've learned many times over."

Lord Stark rose from his seat, his decision made with the finality that had always characterized him. "At least join us for a feast tonight. The household should welcome you properly, and your return deserves celebration." His eyes softened as he looked at Jon. "It would mean much to us all."

Marika exchanged a glance with Ranni before answering, "Perhaps another time, Lord Stark." Her tone was gentle but left no room for persuasion. "We have matters to attend to this night."

"We no longer require sustenance as you understand it," Ranni explained, noting the disappointment that crossed several faces. "Our existence is sustained differently now." She gazed fondly at Jon. "Though my husband might still enjoy a taste of your northern bread and honey, for the sake of memory."

The three of them stood to leave, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Jon walked to where Arya still stood, kneeling down to embrace her fiercely. "I'll see you tomorrow, little sister," he whispered, ruffling her hair as he had done so many times before. He moved to Bran next, clasping the boy's shoulders. "And you, young Bran. I have stories of climbing that would make even your adventures seem tame." Bran's eyes widened at that, his fear forgotten in the face of such a promise.

Jon nodded to Robb and Theon, noting their still-stunned expressions with amusement. His eyes lingered on Sansa, who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange, her courtesies temporarily abandoned in the face of the inexplicable. Finally, he bowed slightly to Lord and Lady Stark. "Until tomorrow," he said simply, before turning to follow his wives toward the door, his black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow given form. "The godswood calls us home tonight."

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Jon was waiting for them on a moss-covered boulder near the heart of the godswood, his figure a stark contrast to the ancient, gnarled trees that surrounded him. The morning mist still clung to the forest floor, weaving between exposed roots and giving the sacred grove an ethereal quality that felt fitting. Above him, crimson leaves rustled in the gentle northerly breeze, the face carved into the heart tree watching with its eternal, bleeding gaze. Jon had chosen this spot deliberately—it was where his blood had pooled when he died, where his journey to the Lands Between had begun.

He no longer wore the gleaming black armor of the previous day. Instead, he was dressed in flowing robes of deep azure, embroidered with constellations and cosmic symbols that seemed to shift subtly when caught by the light. These were the robes of Raya Lucaria, worn by only the most accomplished sorcerers of the academy. In his right hand, he held the Azur glintstone staff, its crystalline head glimmering with barely contained power. Jon had been practicing with Ranni since dawn, the air around them crackling with frost and starlight as she guided him through incantations that would have shattered the mind of any ordinary man.

With concentration, Jon closed his heart, stilling the waves of power that had been emanating from him. Even the trees had been responding to his aura, their branches bending toward him as if drawn by some primal magnetic force. He smiled faintly at the thought of what his family would make of him now. They had been shocked by his armor, his eyes, his wives—but they had yet to truly understand what he had become.

Even before ascending to the position of Elden Lord, after defeating the Shardbearers, after dear Melina had turned his many golden runes to strength, Jon had transcended the limitations of ordinary humanity. His speed, his strength, his endurance—they had all grown exponentially with each victory, with each challenge overcome. And his repertoire of spells had expanded from nothing to a vast arsenal that could call down stars or conjure flames hot enough to melt stone.

But after holding the shards of the Elden Ring within himself, after passing them to Ranni and becoming Elden Lord and consort to two goddesses... Jon honestly couldn't consider himself human by any measure anymore. A demigod nearing full divinity was perhaps the most accurate description—though even that felt insufficient to capture the cosmic power that now flowed through his veins alongside blood.

As if responding to his thoughts, Jon's shimmering silver eyes suddenly shifted, the color bleeding away to reveal irises of molten gold with dark, vertical slits at their centers. The eyes of a dragon. He let the transformation happen, no longer fighting against the changes his body had undergone. It had taken many deaths in the Lands Between and Farum Azula, but to say he had consumed the hearts of countless dragons, including their lord Placidusax, would be a true statement. Coupled with the dragon's blood he already had flowing within him...

"I knew it then," Jon whispered to himself, watching a fallen leaf drift into the black pool. "I knew why I could communicate with them, why their fire felt like an extension of my own breath." He had put the pieces of his birth together during his travels through the endless wars and revelations of the Lands Between. Eddard Stark was not his father. Rhaegar Targaryen was.

Jon's hand tightened slightly around the staff, frost crystals forming briefly where his fingers touched the polished wood. He respected Eddard for protecting him, for risking everything to shield the son of the man whose actions had helped ignite Robert's Rebellion. But he could not forgive him for not standing up when Jon was slighted at every turn, for allowing him to believe he was nothing but a stain on Stark honor. Even yesterday, in the Great Hall, Jon could not bring himself to call Eddard "father." The word had caught in his throat like a fish bone.

And lady Catelyn... Jon sighed heavily, disturbing the surface of the pool with his breath. While he could understand her distrust—how could any wife easily accept a child supposedly born of her husband's infidelity?—he could not forgive the deliberate coldness she had shown him. He had been but a child, desperate for affection, for any acknowledgment beyond suspicion and disdain. Had she shown him even a sliver of motherly care, she would have had his devotion until the grave. Instead, she had taught him his first lessons about cruelty and rejection.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he murmured, allowing the dragon's eyes to fade back to silver. None of it mattered—not the slights, not the pain, not even the truth of his parentage. He had died. He had been reborn. He had ascended. The petty concerns of the boy he once was had burned away in the crucible of his transformation.

Jon sensed them before he heard them—the familiar presences approaching through the trees. The Stark family, coming to see what had become of their godswood, and perhaps to verify that Jon and his extraordinary wives hadn't simply been a shared hallucination from the previous day. He remained seated, unmoving, as they emerged from the mist into the clearing around the heart tree.

Arya was the first to break through the tree line, her small frame darting between ancient trunks as she raced toward Jon. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him in his azure robes, so different from the black armor of yesterday but no less otherworldly.

"Jon!" she called, skidding to a halt before him, her boots sending ripples across the misty ground. "You look like a wizard from Old Nan's stories!" She reached out to touch the shimmering fabric of his sleeve, her fingers tracing one of the constellations embroidered there. The stars seemed to twinkle in response, causing her to snatch her hand back with a delighted gasp.

The rest of the Stark family appeared moments later, following the path Arya had blazed. Lord Stark led the way, his solemn face a mask of careful neutrality. Behind him came Robb and Theon, then Sansa with Rickon's small hand clutched in hers. Bran followed close behind, his curious eyes already fixed on Jon's staff. Even Lady Catelyn had decided to join them, though she kept her distance, hovering at the edge of the clearing like a wary sentinel. To Jon's mild surprise, Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole had also come, the old maester's chain clinking softly as he moved.

"That's a wizard's staff, isn't it?" Bran asked without preamble, pointing at the glintstone weapon Jon held. "Can you cast spells with it? Real magic—not just tricks?"

Jon smiled at his younger brother's directness. "Yes," he said simply, tilting the staff slightly so that morning light caught the crystalline head, sending prismatic fragments dancing across the nearby tree trunks. "In the Lands Between, sorcery is as real as the ground beneath your feet. I've learned to harness glintstone magic, frost spells, gravitational forces, and more."

"Show us!" Arya demanded, bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement. "Can you make things float? Or turn invisible? Or shoot lightning?"

"Arya," Lord Stark admonished gently, though his own eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. He stepped forward, inclining his head toward Jon. "Good morning. I trust you and your... wives... found the godswood suitable for your needs?"

Jon rose from the boulder, offering a light bow to both Lord and Lady Stark. "More than suitable, my lord."

"You can call me Father, Jon," Eddard said quietly, a hint of pain crossing his features. "You've always been my son, regardless of your... changes."

Jon's silver eyes cooled slightly. "That would be improper now, Lord Stark," he replied firmly. "I am no longer the boy who left Winterfell. I have learned much about myself, about my place in the world. Some truths cannot be undone with kind words." He glanced briefly at Lady Catelyn, whose face had grown pale. "Some wounds do not heal, even after death."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the gathering. Even Theon, usually quick with a jest, seemed to sense the weight of the moment. Eddard's shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, the rejection striking deeper than any blade. Catelyn's eyes darted between her husband and Jon, an unfamiliar emotion—perhaps guilt—flickering across her features.

Sansa, ever the innocent lady, broke the tension. "Your robes are beautiful," she said, her voice carrying the practiced politeness of a highborn lady. "I've never seen fabric that moves like that, as if the stars themselves were woven into the thread."

Jon inclined his head, grateful for the change in subject. "They are the robes of an accomplished sorcerer of Raya Lucaria Academy," he explained. "Only those who have mastered the highest forms of glintstone sorcery are permitted to wear them. The constellations you see are not mere decoration—they're arcane formulas, spells encoded into the very fabric."

"Speaking of beautiful things," Theon interjected with a smirk, "where are those divine wives of yours? I was hoping for another glimpse of their... celestial glory."

Robb elbowed him sharply, but looked expectantly at Jon nonetheless.

"They await us at the manor," Jon replied, a faint smile playing at his lips.

"Manor?" Robb questioned, glancing around the godswood. "What manor? Where did you sleep last night?"

Instead of answering, Jon turned and raised his free hand toward the space behind the heart tree. His fingers traced an intricate pattern in the air, leaving trails of blue light that lingered like smoke. As the Stark family watched, the light expanded and solidified, forming a glowing sigil that pulsed with otherworldly energy. The runes around its edge spiraled inward, creating a doorway of pure magic that shimmered like heat above summer stones.

"You need only follow me," Jon said, stepping backward into the portal without hesitation. His form rippled like a reflection in disturbed water, then vanished entirely.

Arya didn't wait for permission. With a whoop of excitement, she darted forward and leapt through the shimmering doorway. Bran was only steps behind her, ignoring his mother's sharp cry of alarm.

Lord Stark exchanged a worried glance with his wife before squaring his shoulders. "Together," he said firmly, extending his hand to Catelyn. After a moment's hesitation, she took it, and they stepped through the portal side by side. Robb, Theon, and Sansa (still clutching Rickon) followed, with Maester Luwin and Vayon Poole bringing up the rear, the old maester muttering about the impossibility of it all.

The sensation was like plunging into ice-cold water, followed immediately by the warmth of summer sun. For an instant, they felt weightless, formless—and then solid ground seemed to materialize beneath their feet. Except it wasn't ground at all.

They stood upon clouds, vast billowing masses that stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of feet below them, glimpsed through occasional breaks in the cloud cover, lay the distant patchwork of northern countryside, impossibly far away.

"Seven hells!" Theon cried, his arms immediately wrapping around Robb in terror. "We're going to die! We're going to fall!"

Robb, equally pale, clung to his friend while attempting to maintain some dignity. "Sansa, don't move!" he called out, seeing his sister frozen in place, her eyes wide with fear as she clutched Rickon to her chest. The toddler, for his part, seemed delighted, reaching out with chubby hands to grab at the mist swirling around them.

Lord Stark had pulled Lady Catelyn close, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Jon!" he called out, voice tight with controlled panic. "What is the meaning of this?"

Maester Luwin had fallen to his hands and knees, his chain pooling against the cloudtop as he stared down through a break in the mist. "Impossible," he kept muttering, his scholarly mind struggling to reconcile what his senses told him. "Completely impossible."

Meanwhile, Arya and Bran showed no such concerns. They were running across the cloud surface, laughing with abandon as they discovered they could bounce slightly with each step, as if the clouds had the consistency of a feather mattress.

"Look!" Arya shouted, performing a cartwheeling tumble that would have given Septa Mordane heart failure. "It's like flying!"

Jon stood amidst the chaos, staff planted firmly on the cloudy surface, looking utterly at ease. The cosmic symbols on his robes seemed more vibrant here, as if responding to the impossible environment. A faint smile played across his lips as he watched his family's varied reactions.

"Are you quite finished panicking?" he finally asked, loud enough to cut through the commotion. "Or has no one noticed that you're not actually falling?"

The frantic movement stilled as his words sank in. Theon cautiously unlocked his arms from around Robb, both young men straightening with embarrassed coughs. Sansa tentatively shifted her weight from one foot to another, marveling at the strange springy sensation. Lord and Lady Stark exchanged bewildered glances before slowly releasing their death grip on each other.

"But... how?" Maester Luwin asked, finally daring to rise to his feet. "This defies all natural laws. Clouds are water vapor; they cannot support weight."

Arya's laughter rang out as she spun in circles around her stunned family members. "It's magic, Maester! Actual magic!" She pointed at her father's dumbfounded expression. "You should see your face!"

Jon raised his staff, and in response, the cloud beneath them began to shift and consolidate. It formed a circular platform that started to descend through the misty layers, carrying them all downward at a steady pace. Through gaps in the surrounding clouds, they could see they were approaching a landscape unlike anything in the North—or anywhere in Westeros.

"By the old gods and the new," Vayon Poole whispered, speaking for the first time since their arrival.

Below them spread a vast expanse of shimmering lakes and rolling hills, bathed in warm, golden sunlight that had no visible source. Yet despite the brightness, the sky above was filled not with the blue of day but with an impossible tapestry of stars—a galaxy spread across the heavens in full view despite the daylight. The stars pulsed with colors no northerner had ever seen in the night sky: purples, blues, and pinks swirling in cosmic patterns that seemed both chaotic and perfectly ordered.

And rising from the center of this impossible landscape stood a structure that made Winterfell look like a peasant's hut by comparison. A massive academy built of dark stone, its numerous towers spiraling upward as if reaching for the stars themselves. Magic visibly emanated from it in waves of blue light, and even from this distance, they could see countless figures moving about its grounds and walkways.

"My lord and ladies, honored guests," Jon said formally, his silver eyes reflecting the starlight above, "welcome to the land of liurnia and there in the distance, the Academy of Raya Lucaria, where the very laws of nature bend to the will of those who understand them."

There was no applause of course but Arya and Brans light clapping while the rest of them were left in shock was appreciated nonetheless.