The sky was starless, black and immense. Rhaegal's wings cut through the frigid night like scythes through smoke. Beneath them, the snow-laced Riverlands passed in silence—broken only by the distant rumble of the undead siege. Jon Snow sat astride the dragon, his face grim, the ancient map Bran had given him clutched tight against his chest.
The dragon began to descend. As they flew over a desolate vale flanked by gnarled trees, a strange stillness overcame the land. At its center lay a lake, perfectly round and disturbingly calm. It reflected nothing—not the sky, nor the dragon above. The waters were ink, pure and impenetrable.
Rhaegal landed gently on a rocky outcropping near the shore, snorting plumes of white steam. Jon dismounted, breath misting, and set down his sword. He unfastened his armor, leaving only a small dagger and the wolf-stitched cloak his father had once worn.
He stared out at the water. A part of him screamed to stay. The rest knew this was the only way.
He stepped in.
The lake was agony. Cold like razors, like every sin and wound he had ever endured. Jon forced himself forward, arms and legs burning. Whispers began to rise in the mist: "Winter was meant to end…" "First men… last hope…"
He heard Ned's voice. Lyanna's. Ghost's howl. The dead weren't speaking—his past was.
Halfway across, he faltered. He sank.
Darkness swallowed him.
But his will rose.
He kicked, clawed, surged forward—and burst from the water, dragging himself onto the shore.
The Isle of Faces lay ahead. It was not just a place—it was memory made flesh. Weirwoods, thousands of years old, ringed the island like sentinels. Faces carved into their bark wept red sap, watching him without blinking.
Jon staggered into the forest.
The air shimmered. The light twisted.
He saw Ned beneath the heart tree, kneeling, sword in hand. "You are my son," he whispered.
Lyanna appeared, cradling a newborn, eyes full of sadness. "Promise me, Jon."
Then Rhaegar, clad in silver and black, eyes gleaming with sorrow and purpose. "Ice and fire must unite."
The figures vanished. The forest remained.
At last, Jon reached a clearing. The weirwood before him was different—taller, older, its roots like gnarled claws sinking into the earth. A hollow sat in its trunk, wide as a man's chest. The dragonglass wound where the Night King had once been made.
Embedded within the bark, pulsing faintly, was a branch—blackened, streaked with veins of blue fire.
Jon approached.
He touched the branch. It was warm. Alive. A heartbeat thrummed through it.
He pulled.
The branch came free with a shuddering sigh, and the forest fell deathly quiet.
Then from the mist stepped a figure small and cloaked in moss and bark. Her eyes glowed faintly green.
A Child of the Forest.
"We created him," she said softly. "To stop your kind from destroying ours. But he became something else."
She placed a hand over Jon's.
"We did not know he would forget mercy."
She looked at the branch.
"May this undo what we could not."
And with that, she vanished into the trees.
Jon wrapped the branch in cloth, tied it across his back, and turned.
Rhaegal waited at the lakeside.
With one final glance at the grove, Jon climbed onto the dragon's back.
A roar broke the silence.
The dragon took flight—into the dark, toward Winterfell, and the storm to come.
As Rhaegal ascended through the shroud of mist and wind, Jon clung tightly to the saddle, his mind still echoing with the visions he'd endured. The weight of the branch across his back seemed heavier now, as though the ancient magic within it pulsed in time with the beating of his own heart.
Far below, the Isle of Faces faded behind him, the red leaves of the weirwoods rustling without wind, as if bidding farewell. The whispers had stopped, but their meanings lingered—fragments of prophecy, of pain, of identity. He was no longer just Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell. He was the child of a promise, the heir of two houses, and now, perhaps, the world's last hope.
Snow whipped across his face as the cold intensified. The dragon flew faster, sensing urgency in its rider. From the skies, the Riverlands gave way to hills, then forests, then fields of white and shadow. The flickering glow of distant firelight appeared on the horizon—Winterfell.
Jon could see movement far ahead. Tiny flickers in the dark. Fire. Magic. War. The air above the battlefield trembled with power—rising heat clashing with overwhelming cold. Dragons roared faintly in the distance.
He braced himself.
The branch would need to be shaped. A weapon forged not in fire, but in belief, in legacy. He would need to trust the Old Gods to guide his hand. Trust his instincts. Trust that he still had time.
Below, the storm of death and fire raged. And Jon Snow, Targaryen by blood and Stark by heart, flew toward the end of all things.