In vision, Bran drifted through centuries. He saw forests untouched by man, rivers running crimson from forgotten wars. Then, he reached it—a clearing encircled by weirwoods, their red leaves fluttering without wind.
In the center, the Children of the Forest gathered in a solemn circle.
They plunged a dragonglass dagger into a man's heart. He did not scream. His eyes turned ice-blue. His skin blanched. His soul burned. Bran followed his transformation through time—the same man in different forms, now cloaked in night and crowned in thorns of frost.
At the moment of his creation, Bran noticed something strange: his body was wrapped in ancient roots, pulsing with the power of the Old Gods. They fed him. Sustained him. Held him.
When Bran returned to the present, his breath caught. The wind stirred around the weirwood.
He summoned the others.
Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, Arya, Sansa, and Varys gathered in the Great Hall, cloaks dripping from melted snow. The hearth roared.
Bran's voice was calm. "The Night King cannot be killed by dragonglass or Valyrian steel. He was made by the Old Gods. Only the tree that gave him life can undo him."
"Where is it?" Jon asked.
Bran unrolled a tattered map. "The Isle of Faces."
"I'll go," Daenerys said immediately.
Bran shook his head. "You cannot. Only those who believe in the Old Gods may walk there. It is protected."
"Then I'll go," Jon said.
Bran handed him a carved map—etched into weirwood bark, burned into memory.
That night, Jon mounted Rhaegal. The battlement was quiet save for the wind. Jon studied the stars and the weirwood map Bran had given him, cross-referencing the path in his mind. Though he had never seen the Isle, something in his blood seemed to steer him north by instinct—like a compass etched in his bones. He whispered an old Stark prayer to the Old Gods and gripped Rhaegal's reins.
The Isle, Bran had said, could not be found by maps or eyes alone. Only those who believed would see it. And Jon did.
He leaned forward and urged the dragon toward the black horizon.
Hours passed. The world fell quiet beneath them.
At last, the Lake of the Green Men came into view—circular, still, black as pitch. Its waters reflected no stars, no moonlight. It was as though it drank the sky."
Hours passed. The world fell quiet beneath them.
At last, the Lake of the Green Men came into view—circular, still, black as pitch. Its waters reflected no stars, no moonlight. It was as though it drank the sky.
Rhaegal hovered over the shoreline. The cold deepened. Jon dismounted and unbuckled his sword. He removed his armor piece by piece, leaving only the carved branch strapped to his back.
"You don't have to do this alone," Daenerys said quietly.
"I do," Jon replied. "This place wasn't made for kings. Only the believers of the old gods."
Jon stepped into the water. It was agony. Every muscle seized, every breath stabbed his lungs. But he pushed forward, strokes wide and slow, through the supernatural mist.
As he neared the island, whispers echoed all around him. Names. Memories. Laughter and grief. "You are the sword that never bent…" "You are the wolf's ghost…" "You are the prince who was promised… or not."
He reached the shore on trembling legs.
The Isle of Faces was ancient.
He swam to the Isle of Faces. When he set foot on shore, he felt a current travel through his body, and he knew, some where deep in his mind. he wasn't in Westeros anymore.
The wind whispered through the weirwoods like the sighs of forgotten gods. Jon trudged deeper into the heart of the Isle, each step a muffled echo on a forest floor blanketed by fallen red leaves. Shadows clung to the gnarled roots, and the faces in the trees seemed to follow his every movement—stern, sad, silent.
Weirwoods arched like cathedral vaults. Faces carved into bark wept red sap. The air was thick with incense—natural, sweet, decaying. No birds sang. No beasts stirred. Only the crunch of Jon's boots.
He wandered for what felt like hours, until the trees parted and revealed a clearing of roots, stones, and bone.
There it was—the tree. The one from his dream. Carved with spirals and symbols older than the First Men. At its base, a hollow throbbed with the memory of pain. Dragonglass still clung to its roots like blackened teeth.
Jon knelt.
He placed his hand on the tree and whispered, "Forgive me." Then he pulled the branch free.
It pulsed in his hand, warm, alive. A current ran up his arm.
Suddenly, the wind died.
A figure stepped from the shadows—small, cloaked in bark and moss. Then another figured stepped forward, her skin dappled with lichen, her eyes luminous gold. They carried no weapon, only staffs adorned with feathers and bones.
"You came," she said. Her voice was soft, and sorrowful. A Child of the Forest.
"I came to save my people," Jon replied, wary but respectful.
"You came to unbound what was made?" the other child asked.
Jon rose. "Yes, I came for what you made."
The first Child, the one who guided him, sighed. "Men came with fire and steel. They burned our woods, hunted our kin. We used what magic we had to stop them. We took one of theirs—a warrior, fierce and proud—and gave him over to the earth."
The other nodded. "Now the old ways are almost gone. The old gods slumber. And world's magic is withering. But you bear the magic of old blood. Perhaps you can save what we could not?"
"I don't want to be a hero," Jon said.
"No hero ever does," she whispered.
They walked together beneath the weirwood canopy. More Children emerged from the shadows, silent sentinels of an age Jon barely understood. They didn't speak but watched him with curiosity.
They stopped before a tree unlike any Jon had ever seen.
It towered above the grove, older and grander than the rest. Its trunk was impossibly wide—at least twenty men could not have wrapped their arms around it. The bark gleamed white, smooth as bone, yet patterned with ancient grooves that seemed etched by time itself. Its roots spread outward like a web, some the width of ships' hulls, cracking the earth and plunging deep into the unseen.
Above, crimson leaves whispered, though no wind stirred. They shimmered faintly, pulsing with a soft inner glow, as if the tree itself breathed in rhythm with the world.
And on the trunk, staring down at Jon, was a face.
Unlike the grim, weeping visages carved into other weirwoods, this one wore a gentle expression—an old man's countenance, calm and wise. The carved mouth curved into a faint smile. The eyes, though closed, felt watchful. Protective.
Jon stepped forward, instinctively lowering his head. He didn't know why—only that he must.
Power radiated from the tree like heat from a forge. It wasn't hostile. It was warm, welcoming. Familiar.
Then something remarkable happened.
A branch, long and bowed with red leaves, bent low toward Jon. It creaked softly, like an old man settling into a chair. The tip touched the ground, trembling. Then—with a gentle snap—a slender section of it broke off and fell at Jon's feet.
He knelt and picked it up.
It was warm. Alive. He felt it thrum in his fingers like a living heart. Blue-green veins shimmered faintly beneath the surface, twisting and pulsing like river roots.
Behind him, one of the Children of the Forest spoke—her voice reverent, almost hushed.
"A gift of god, freely given. Only what made life can destroy it."
Jon met her gaze. "This is the only thing that can kill him, isn't it?"
The Child nodded solemnly. "The tree that birthed death has offered life. The blade you carry will carry all our hopes."
Jon looked down at the branch again. The power within it pulsed, steady and certain.
Then Jon knelt beside the tree, and prayed.
Afterwards, he bound it in the weirwood cloth and placed it across his back.
Without another word, he turned toward the lake—toward Winterfell—and the end.