Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.
A/N: Updated 5/7/2025, see notes below.
Year 300 AC
Castle Black
Tormund stood transfixed, his eyes wide with awe as he watched the firestorm rage before him. The flames danced and swirled, casting an eerie orange glow across the frozen landscape. But as the seconds ticked by, his awe slowly gave way to a growing sense of dread.
The flames began to part, revealing a sight that sent a chill down Tormund's spine. The only thought racing through his mind was How? Emerging from the heart of the inferno was a creature of nightmares, a beast so terrifying that it defied all reason.
A colossal winged behemoth, more immense than any giant Tormund had ever encountered or even heard tales of, ascended from the raging inferno. Its hide was covered in scales of the darkest ebony, appearing to devour any illumination that dared to touch its form. The monster's eyes blazed with an unearthly fervor, piercing Tormund's very soul with primal terror. Even the mighty Wun Wun, who stood at least fourteen feet tall with the strength of a dozen men, would have been dwarfed by this nightmarish creature.
Tormund felt his knees buckle beneath him, his body trembling with a terror he had never known. In that moment, all thoughts of bravery and strength fled his mind, replaced by a primal fear that consumed his very being. His usual boisterous demeanor and hearty confidence evaporated in the face of this unfathomable horror, leaving him feeling small and utterly insignificant before the behemoth's awe-inspiring presence.
Memories of Tormund's life surged through his mind - his beloved children, the little ones who carried on his legacy, and the hardy folk he had pledged to lead and defend. He recalled the trials they had weathered together, the fierce clashes against rival clans and the icy touch of winter, but also the raucous feasts and hearty laughter that warmed even the coldest nights. Staring into the face of this unimaginable horror, an icy dread gripped Tormund's heart as he silently beseeched the old gods to spare his people from the impending maelstrom, to grant them the strength and fortune to endure the coming storm.
For Tormund knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was only the beginning. The Long Night was coming, and with it, a darkness that threatened to swallow them all. He could only hope that his family would find the strength to carry on without him, to face the terrors that lay ahead. The thought of his children, so young and full of life, facing the icy horrors of the Others without his protection tore at his heart. But Tormund was a warrior, a leader, and he knew that he must stand firm in the face of this impending doom. He would fight with every ounce of his strength, rally his people, and forge alliances with those who once were enemies, all in the desperate hope that the Free Folk might survive the coming storm. For in the end, that was all that mattered - the survival of his people, his family, his way of life. And so, with a heavy heart and a grim determination, Tormund steeled himself for the long, dark night ahead.
As the earth quaked under the dragon's thunderous cry, Tormund closed his eyes for a fleeting moment. He silently beseeched the heavens, Tormund entreated the old gods, his words a fervent plea. Guard me blood 'gainst ruin. Give 'em the grit to bear all, whate'er befalls. An' bless me with the mettle to face this beast, even if it be me last breath. These words remained unspoken, a fervent prayer whispered only within the confines of his mind.
Tormund's eyes snapped open, a newfound resolve surging through his veins. He spun around, his voice booming across the chaos, "Run, ye bloody fools! Move yer arses!"
With a mighty roar, Tormund snatched up his axe and charged headlong towards the colossal black dragon, its form slowly descending upon them. The ground shuddered violently as the beast landed, the impact reverberating through every stone of Castle Black. Tormund stumbled, his footing momentarily lost, but he swiftly regained his balance and pressed forward, undeterred.
The dragon's gaze fell upon the audacious red-headed warrior, a flicker of amusement dancing in its ancient eyes. To think that a mere mortal would dare to challenge its might - the notion was almost laughable. As Tormund closed the distance, the dragon's maw began to crack open, wisps of flame licking at the back of its throat, poised to unleash hell upon the foolhardy wildling.
But in that moment, a haunting, yet sorrowful howl pierced the air, echoing from the space between Tormund and the dragon. Both combatants froze, their attention drawn to the source of the cry. There, standing mere feet from the dragon's looming presence, was Ghost, his white fur stark against the blackened landscape.
Tormund's pace slowed, his eyes wide with disbelief. But it was the dragon's reaction that truly stole the breath from his lungs. For the first time since its emergence, the behemoth seemed to hesitate, its red eyes a mirror of that of the direwolf. And then, in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, the dragon spoke a single word: "Ghost."
The sound was deep and guttural yet seemed to only be a whisper, Tormund stood rooted to the spot, his mind reeling as he struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed. Had the dragon truly spoken? Had it recognized the direwolf?
Questions raced through Tormund's mind, each more baffling than the last. He stared at the scene before him, his axe hanging limply at his side, falling from his hands, as he tried to make sense of the impossible. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next move in this strange and terrifying dance.
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The flames of a firestorm shifted and swirled around Jon, transforming the landscape. As the inferno dissipated, he found himself standing in the familiar godswood of Winterfell. The ancient weirwood tree loomed before him, its blood-red sap oozing from the carved face, a stark contrast against the pale bark.
Jon's dark eyes slowly surveyed the ancient godswood, drinking in every familiar detail of the sacred grove that held so many cherished memories.
Jon's dark eyes slowly surveyed the ancient godswood, drinking in every familiar detail of the sacred grove that held so many cherished memories. His thoughts drifted to the days of his youth, when the godswood echoed with the laughter and shouts of the Stark children at play.
Vivid recollections surfaced of the innumerable moments he and Robb, his steadfast comrade and most loyal confidant, had passed in this very spot. Beneath the vigilant gaze of the weirwood, they would cross their timber blades, refining their techniques and envisioning the triumphs that awaited them. In Jon's mind's eye, he could see their younger selves, faces flushed with exertion and eyes bright with determination, as they danced the intricate steps of swordplay, their boyish laughter ringing through the sacred stillness of the grove.
Arya had been a fixture in those games, refusing to be left behind. She would dart between the trees, quick as a cat, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief as she demanded to join their battles. I want to learn to fight too! she used to say. Jon smiled at the memory of her fierce determination, so like his own.
Even little Bran had tottered after them on chubby legs, eager to be part of the adventures. Help me climb this tree Jon! He had been a sweet boy, full of curiosity and wonder, always begging for one more story or pleading to be lifted high into the branches of the weirwood.
As Jon stood there, lost in remembrance, his heart ached for the siblings he had not seen in years. Sansa, with her auburn hair and blue eyes, so like her mother. She had always kept her distance from Jon, ever mindful of his bastard status, but he had loved her all the same. And Rickon, the wild wolf pup, barely more than a babe when Jon had left for the Wall. He wondered what sort of boy he had grown into, and if he even remembered his half-brother's face.
Jon's heart swelled with longing for his pack, scattered to the winds by war and tragedy. He yearned to see them again, to muss Arya's hair and hear Bran's laughter, to clasp Robb's hand, dote on Rickon and even endure Sansa's cool courtesy.
But those days were gone, lost to the inexorable march of time. The godswood stood silent and empty, a testament to all that had been taken from House Stark.
A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over Jon, the recollections both warming his heart and piercing it with sorrow. Those golden days of childhood felt like a lifetime ago, before the world had torn the pack of young wolves apart, scattering them to the winds. Standing here amidst the rustling leaves and creaking boughs, Jon could almost hear the echoes of their laughter and chatter, ghosts of a time long past. The godswood seemed to whisper with the weight of all that had been lost and could never be reclaimed.
"You don't belong here," a voice said, the words echoing through the godswood, making Jon turn his attention back to the heart tree, a voice cut through the stillness. His hand instinctively reaching for Longclaw, only to find it missing. Jon took a moment and asked "Where do I belong, then?", his voice tinged with confusion and a hint of defiance.
The stranger stepped forward, his features coming into focus. He bore a striking resemblance to Robb, but with the Stark colors, and his eyes held a wisdom that seemed to stretch beyond the ages. "To the living," the man replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"It was R'hllor who ye were meant to meet," the stranger continued, his speech marked by the rough cadence of the Free Folk. "Name's Brandon Stark, but ye might know me as Bran the Builder."
Jon's eyes widened as realization dawned upon him. He was standing in the presence of a legend, the founder of House Stark and the architect of the Wall. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head in reverence. "I am honored, Bran the Builder," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But why was I supposed to meet R'hllor?"
Bran the Builder's expression grew somber. "A red witch worked a bit o' magic on ye, lad. The last kiss, they call it. Meant to bring ye back, but with a price. R'hllor, he ain't one for charity. He'd have taken somethin' from ye, somethin' precious."
"What would he have taken?" Jon asked, a sense of unease settling in his gut.
Bran the Builder smiled mysteriously. "A price ye shouldn't have to pay. I aim to use what's left o' the Wall's power to bring ye back m'self. The old gods, they'll do the job proper."
Jon's eyes widened in alarm. "No," he protested, "the Wall's power must remain intact. The Long Night is coming, and we need every defense we have." He lowered his gaze, shame washing over him. "I failed to stop it. I don't deserve to live."
Bran the Builder's voice grew stern. "Ye made mistakes, aye. Spread yer allies too thin, left yerself open to betrayal. Yer brother Robb, he did the same. But ye did the best ye could with what ye had, and that's no small thing."
The ancient Stark reached out, gripping Jon's shoulders firmly before pulling him into a bear hug. "I'm proud of ye, lad. Ye fought hard, even without magic on yer side."
As Bran the Builder stepped back, Jon saw a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "I ain't just sacrificing the Wall's power. I'm givin' up my own soul, lettin' it become one with the old gods. A small price, to keep the realms o' men safe."
Jon fell to his knees once more, his head bowed in supplication. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking with emotion, "do not do this. The Wall's power is too important, and I am not worthy of such a sacrifice."
Bran the Builder's voice softened, but his resolve remained unwavering. "Ye are worth it, Jon Snow. Ye are the blood of the dragon and the wolf, the fire and the ice. Ye have a destiny to fulfill, and I'll be damned if I let ye slip away now."
Jon felt a lump form in his throat as he gazed upon the ancient Stark, a man of legend offering the ultimate sacrifice. Time seemed to slow, the rustling leaves and creaking branches fading into the background as Bran the Builder's words hung heavy in the air.
"Time's runnin' short, lad," Bran said, his voice urgent yet steady. "There's a few things ye need to know before I do what needs doin'."
Jon nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he braced himself for the wisdom of the ages.
"First, remember who ye are," Bran said, his eyes boring into Jon's. "Ye're a Stark, through and through, no matter what anyone says. The blood of the First Men flows in yer veins, and the old gods watch over ye."
Jon felt a swell of pride at the words, a sense of belonging that had always eluded him.
"Second, trust yer instincts," Bran continued. "Ye've got a good head on yer shoulders, and a heart that knows what's right. Don't let anyone sway ye from yer path."
Jon nodded, thinking of the many times he had doubted himself, the many mistakes he had made.
"And third," Brandon said, cheerfully, "Yer family ain't as dead as ye think they are, lad. There are others who know the truth about yer mother, and ye'll need their help in the battles to come. Remember that the pack survives."
Jon's heart raced at the prospect of finding his lost kin, of discovering the secrets of his past. But before he could ask any more questions, Bran the Builder stepped back, his form beginning to fade into the mist.
Bran's voice fell to an ominous murmur, each syllable laden with fateful significance. "And fourth," he spoke solemnly, his piercing eyes fixed on Jon's, "Watch out fer the blood-red god and the ruin birthed from 'cross the waters. His bein' puts all ye cherish at risk, same as the icy devil up in the frozen wastes."
Jon felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, the weight of Bran's words settling on his shoulders. He knew the road ahead would be hard, that the sacrifices to come would be great. But with the wisdom of his ancestor to guide him, and the strength of his family at his back, he felt a glimmer of hope.
"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't forget what you've said."
Bran the Builder smiled, a sad, knowing smile that spoke of centuries of watching and waiting. "I know ye won't, lad. The fire of the dragon courses through your veins now, lad," Brandon said, his voice low and resonant. "You're bound to the beast in a way that goes beyond mere flesh and blood. It's a connection that must be mastered, harnessed, just as you've learned to control your direwolf."
The weight of those words settled heavily upon Jon's shoulders, the implications both thrilling and terrifying. He knew the old Stark spoke the truth - he could feel the dragon's heat pulsing within him, a primal force that threatened to consume him if left unchecked. And yet, the prospect of learning to wield such power, to unite the wolf and dragon within...it filled him with a sense of purpose he'd never known before.
"Wake now, Jon Snow," Bran commanded, his voice echoing through the godswood. "You don't belong here, and there's work to be done."
As Bran's words faded, the world around Jon began to shift. The ancient weirwood trees dissolved into wisps of smoke, and the once-solid ground beneath his feet turned to ash. Flames licked at his skin, growing higher and higher until they consumed his entire vision. The heat was intense, but it did not burn him; instead, it filled him with a strange sense of power and purpose.
Suddenly, Jon's eyes snapped open, and he found himself looking down at Castle Black. The flames that had engulfed him in his dream were nowhere to be seen, replaced by the chill of the winter air. As he blinked away the last remnants of disorientation, a familiar sight came into focus: a pair of red eyes staring back at him.