It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn, centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.

In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces, where the green men kept their silent watch.

(A Game of Thrones, Chapter 2, Catelyn I)

Chapter 19

Jon ran for his life. He was in Winterfell, running, while the warriors of the past fought wights and Others alike. He was in the Wolfswood, running from an unseen enemy while the breath burned in his chest and his heart beat fit to burst. Then he was back in King's Landing, watching a green dragon falling from the sky, run through by the Night King's lance. He ran and ran, until a voice in his head yelled stop, you must stop, brother, think!

He couldn't stop. If he stopped, the wights would catch him and - but he hadn't been in Winterfell. The last thing he remembered was the throne room, and the Night King touching his arm. The air around him grew colder until he was conscious of an icy cold radiating from his wrist, and when he looked down, he saw, once more, the Night King's arm holding him in place.

The room around them disappeared. The Night King disappeared. Jon flew. He was beyond the Wall, much further North than he had ever been, flying through the air like a crow or a dragon, until he reached a place which was so cold, not one living thing could be seen. He knew he was not really there, because the air in his lungs would have frozen instantly.

It was a city, made of ice. An empty city. He walked through the streets, his sword heavy in his hand, and wondered. Like in any dream, whenever he tried to call out, his voice died in his throat. The city melted away, he blinked, and once again, he was at Winterfell, but in a different place and time. Old Nan was telling her stories at the fireside, stories which fascinated Bran, which had fascinated him too.

"Thousands and thousands of years ago, a winter fell that was cold and hard and endless beyond all memory of man. There came a night that lasted a generation . . ."

The bright warm room of his memories darkened, and the fire went out. Frost crept like a living thing along the walls, the chairs, covering Old Nan until she looked more like a statue made of ice, with bright blue glowing gems for eyes.

"In that darkness, the Others came for the first time . . . They were cold things, dead things . . . "

The voice didn't sound much like Old Nan anymore. The frost had grown on her head into icicles, like a crown, and she wore the strange armour of the Others. Jon blinked, and in place of Old Nan, the Night King stood, impassive.

"What are you saying?" The thoughts raced in Jon's head - the old tales? But he had heard other tales, too! "My brother Bran said that you were created by the Children of the Forest!"

The Night King stared at him, impassive. Once again, Jon travelled and he was far North, beyond the Wall, but even further back in time than before, a time when beyond the Wall was lush and green. He watched, powerless, as one of the First Men was transformed into the creature he saw before him. He saw even more than Bran had - how the Night King turned against his creators first, how he destroyed everything that was dear to them, before gathering his troops to destroy them. He understood, now, the pact on the Isle of Faces, between the Children of the Forest and the First Men. It wasn't made after the war, but while the war was still raging, in order to save them all from the monster they had created.

He saw how the Night King and his armies were beaten back by the First Men and the Children of the Forest, how the Night King retreated to that cold and lonely city, and froze within it, waiting.

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to forget, young master!" It was Old Nan, again, but this time a frozen and shrivelled husk of a woman. "That is mortals' boon and talent. Winter is coming, you say, thinking you mean a few flurries which melt as soon as they touch the ground! You call your holdfast 'Winterfell' and give it no more thought than a pretty name! There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, you say! Why? Why must there?"

The shrivelled husk cackled and shrieked with laughter, while behind him, a familiar voice made him jump.

"Winterfell is where the Kings of Winter slumber. A Stark must always be there to remind them of their vow - the vow to rise and fight when the Horn of Joramun calls."

Jon hardly dared look behind him. There was Jeor Mormont, dead, with glowing blue eyes in a dead face.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The voice was a child's voice, yet not truly a child. "You have already lost, Jon Snow."

"The North remembers!" the Old Nan creature cackled. "Remember this, Jon Snow!"

Jon was flying over Winterfell and could only watch in horror as it was overrun by wights and Others, with no sign of the Kings of Winter. No, the only warriors were mortals, who died screaming and then rose again, silent, to fight for the Night King.

Sansa wailed as she was run through by a White Walker, who grinned as he twisted the blade in her chest. Arya fought to the last as wights tore at her. Tormund, Ser Davos, Lord Royce; servants and lords alike – they all died, and then rose. One by one, their eyes opened, but there was no life in them, no life at all.

Jon screamed, and once again the scene changed. The being in front of him looked like a child and yet not – the features were strange and adult, the knowledge in its eyes far beyond childhood. Those eyes . . . slitted like a cat's, but still glowing a deep blue. Jon realised he was looking at one of the Children of the Forest. Or rather, the husk of one of these beings, now being inhabited by the Night King. Jon felt the gorge rise in his throat.

"Speak with your own voice, curse you!" Jon screamed, half-mad at the thought of being kept there while his entire family died at Winterfell. Or not. Was this real?

"I have no voice. The ones who made me did not think to give me one."

Jon scoffed. Was he supposed to feel sorry for the creature?

"I don't believe any of this! You're trying to trick me!" Jon was sure this was a trap, to make him let down his guard.

"What if I am? Even if you win, even if you utterly destroy me . . . in time, you will grow old and die. You will pass on your stories to your children and your children's children, how Winter was stopped by the coming together of ice and fire, of Snow and dragons, and eventually it will come to pass that all this will be forgotten. The North forgets much better than it remembers. The Others, the wights, all these things will become the stuff of old legends. But I never forget. I will be waiting."

The Child-Other had barely finished speaking when Jon found himself catapulted into his real body, in the throne room of the Red Keep. The Night King released his arm and he staggered back, as far as he could go, the images from his vision still swirling around his head. Sansa and Arya, dying horribly, raised as wights. All the people he'd tried to save, every one of them dead. All he had done, all that had been done to him, all for naught. Why didn't he just give up? What was the point? Jon ignored the insistent voice in his head which told him to keep fighting and sat down, heavily, his sword in his lap. Why had he ever thought he could win against the Night King? He was nothing and no-one – he had failed in all his endeavours, and now he would die.

Viserion butted his shoulder, urging him to get up and fight. But Jon had no more fight in him, he thought. He shook his head, and that was when it happened.

A drop of blood landed on Longclaw's blade, sizzling, releasing a wisp of smoke. Jon fought through the fog in his mind, conscious that he wasn't alone in the throne room; the Night King might already be advancing on him. He touched his forehead and looked at his gloved fingers; they were red with blood. He must have reopened his old cut while he came down through the ceiling of the throne room. Almost as if in a dream, he smeared his own blood on the blade of his sword, and, for half a breath, saw a tiny flame dancing on the steel. This was impossible. This was madness. And yet . . . The sound of heavy footsteps moving closer brought him to his senses. He needed more blood, he needed fire and he needed to move fast.

In one swift movement, Jon sliced into his forearm, drawing Longclaw through the welling blood, and raising the sword above his head. In that same instant, Viserion released a ball of flame which folded around the blade, and when it died down, Longclaw was on fire. Jon tore his eyes away from the blazing sword and locked eyes with the Night King, who was no longer smirking.

Jon leapt up and ran towards the Night King. Their swords did not meet with a scream, this time. There was just a dull thud, and when Jon dared glance at the Night King's ice blade, it seemed to have notches in it, which hadn't been there before. Rebuking himself for getting distracted, Jon fought on, lunging at the Night King, trying out any opening he got, though he wasn't sure how deep he would have to stab him with a sword of fire.

A few moments into the fight, Jon came to an unbelievable conclusion: the Night King was losing. Jon was alternating slash and parry with using his sword as a cudgel, and the creature's own ice blade was falling apart under the onslaught. Still, the Night King would not give up, and focused its last efforts on wearing Jon down. But there was another in the throne room.

Viserion lunged over Jon's shoulder at the Night King, biting down on his arm, shaking it from side to side. Jon took the opportunity and sank Longclaw into the Night King's side, leaning heavily on the fiery sword until it went through the Night King, scraping on the stone floor below. The look of surprise in the creature's eyes was very gratifying. Immediately after, the Other fell apart into clods of black, stinking, snow and ice, and Viserion screeched in triumph, rearing his head, releasing huge gouts of flame which scored the entire room.

Jon fell to his knees, trying to catch his breath. He wished he could feel triumph. He wished he could feel anything. He felt dead. He wondered if he had died during the fight and hadn't noticed. The flames on Longclaw died out, one by one, and Jon felt as though his own soul was flickering out, too. They were dead, all of them. There was no reason for him to live on, then.

The mad scrabbling of claws on the rushy floor roused him a little, but not enough to open his eyes, let alone get up. He was done. But Viserion did not want to give up. Jon kept feeling a determined muzzle pushing at him, forcing him to get up, or at least, pull himself up on Viserion's back. Why? What was the point? Eventually, giving in to Viserion was easier than trying to resist, but he could barely keep his eyes open to feel for the ropes they'd used on their journey to King's Landing.

There were voices outside the throne room, and Jon saw Viserion's head snap towards the sound - so fast. He kept forgetting how fast the dragon really was. At that, the dragon rose, back through the hole they'd made in the roof, rising at a speed Jon didn't know the dragon was capable of and flying off. Jon wanted to look for Lannister and Lady Brienne, he wanted to speak to Daenerys and tell her about the Night King . . . there was no limit to what he wanted to do. Sansa, he thought, muzzily. I need to find Sansa.

When Jon next woke up, he could not tell how much time had passed. He could not even tell where he was, except that it was not in King's Landing nor in Winterfell. He was lying next to a stream, with trees all around, and his first thought was that it was no longer snowing. Or perhaps Viserion had brought him to Dorne, or even Essos? But no, he thought - those are Weirwood trees. So many; he hadn't thought there were so many left in the entire South. He started to feel like he was being watched, and when walked up to the closest weirwood, he realised why: there was a face carved into its trunk. It was frowning. The next tree had a weeping face, the next was laughing and the next . . . He drew himself up. Of course, where else could this be? There was only one place, south of the Neck, with so many of the old gods, carved into countless weirwood trees.

In the Isle of Faces, legend had it, the Children of the Forest and the First Men shook hands and declared a truce, and carved a face into every tree, so that the old gods would be watching. But no one could go to the Isle of Faces anymore - boats could not land there, it was said. The last one had been a crannogman, back in the Year of the False Spring - not in his lifetime.

A screech in the air made him look up, and he saw Viserion fly over him, passing him once, twice, flying in wide circles over him, almost as though he wanted to be noticed, before he headed off in one direction. It took Jon a few moments to realise that Viserion wanted to be followed; so, he did. There was a path through the small forest - old and worn and winding, leading to a hillock. No, not a hill - a cave. More weirwood trees were ranged around the opening, as though they were protecting it. Jon wasn't sure that he wanted to go in, but then Viserion landed next to him, with a strange half-squeak, half-yowl, and Jon understood: yes, he was meant to enter.

Just inside the entrance, Jon waited for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the half-light and went further in, or rather, down. The cave was dug deep into the earth, and when Jon thought to ask himself why he could still see to put one foot in front of the other, he had a closer look at the walls and the ground. A strange glow was coming from the moss – enough to light the way. So, he went on, until they reached a part of the cave which was half sand and half pool. There were more luminous plants in the water, and Jon looked at it curiously, but a big head butted him in the back. That wasn't what Viserion wanted to show him. Jon looked around, spotting a small alcove, half hidden in the deep shadows. At first, he only saw a dark smudge on the sand, but then . . .

Half-hidden in the sand, there lay three large eggs; the biggest eggs Jon had ever seen in his life. They were oval and scaly, and if he hadn't known they were eggs, he might have mistaken them for precious stones. They were all covered in scales, but of different colours. One was obsidian and dark, another cream and gold, and the last was a bright emerald green. He reached out, but then drew back his hand. Viserion nudged his hand, as though giving permission, so he touched the white egg, snatching his hand back instantly. It was warm to the touch.

"Viserion?" So, the dragon was female then? "Are these-"

Jon didn't know what to ask. Was Viserion the mother? Had she lain the eggs? If so, who was the father? For once, Jon wished for Tyrion Lannister and his many books - hadn't he said something about dragons being both male and female? Perhaps, Viserion was both mother and father to these eggs.

Laughter sounded in his head. Jon looked up at the dragon, which managed to look amused. He surmised that he wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon.

"Are we leaving them here?"

In fact, Jon had an inkling of what Viserion wanted to do with the eggs. After the Night King's defeat, there would be no more need for dragons. At least, not for many years. In a way, perhaps Rhaegal's death had been fated, so that the two remaining dragons would balance each other out. But what if Drogon laid eggs, too?

Viserion's reaction was hard to explain: the closest mortal gesture would be a shrug. Perhaps he would, perhaps he wouldn't. But Jon got the impression that Drogon had been locked into a maleness early on; it hadn't escaped Jon how close Drogon's name was to that of the Queen's late husband. Most likely, it would not even occur to the creature.

Still, the Night King's warning resounded in Jon's head. They could not forget, ever again. He was already planning warnings to be left for future generations, carved into . . . into what? What was strong enough, lasting enough, that it would outlive the ravages of time? Ironwood, perhaps? He was trying to think of other strong materials when he felt a nudge between his shoulder blades. He only needed to look once into Viserion's golden eyes, to know what it wanted.

Jon knelt in front of the three eggs and carefully buried them in the sand, as deep as he could. He knew there was no danger of them hatching unless a firestorm was unleashed. So, they would wait here; perhaps for a century, or two, or three. Perhaps forever. He snuck a look at Viserion, wondering whether the dragon was sad that its young might never be born, or at least, not in the creature's own lifetime. But Viserion said nothing, only chivvied Jon out of the cave, seemingly wanting to leave as soon as possible. Jon, though, balked at this. He had an insistent pressure on his bladder that was making itself known in a most unpleasant way. Also, he felt as though he hadn't drunk or eaten in an age.

There was no food on the dragon any longer, or water, but the small creek was enough for his thirst, and he was able to relieve himself in a nearby copse. Still, he could feel Viserion's impatience, its desire to be gone, to be as far away from its young as possible, lest they drew danger here with them. But who could come here? No boat had been able to make a landing here for decades. Jon glimpsed a mental flash of a large dragon head, all black, slitted pupils fixed on them, and he stumbled over a rock.

"Drogon? You're worried about him? But surely, your brother . . . I mean . . . " Jon tailed off.

Viserion gave him a sideways glance, and an unbidden thought came to his mind - ambition and thirst for power had turned kinfolk against each other readily enough. Besides, Jon thought, Daenerys might be his aunt, but in reality, they had only recently met. Ultimately, she was simply the Queen of a neighbouring kingdom, and if she ever came to regret having given away the North, gaining control over another three dragons would be extremely useful.

They took to the sky, Jon and his dragon. All his worries and fears came flocking back – what if the Night King hadn't lied to him? What if he was returning to a razed keep, with not even the bodies of his loved ones to mourn over? Hush, he seemed to hear a voice saying. Hush. Wait and see.

It was a beautiful day - cold, to be sure, and getting colder the farther they went from the Isle of Faces. Soon they passed over the Neck and into the North proper. There was still snow on the ground, but it no longer looked like a frozen wasteland. They passed over villages being rebuilt, carts moving along with supplies, and occasionally, groups of warriors fighting the remnants of the Night King's army. But these were mortal warriors - Northmen, free folk, even some Dothraki, riding along, shrilling their war cries. A weak tendril of hope grew in Jon's mind. Surely, a land devastated by the Others would not look like this.

When the turrets of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, the hope in his heart became an almost physical pain. He must have affected Viserion somehow, because the dragon flapped his great wings to pick up speed, and in fact flew so fast that Jon barely saw Winterfell before he was practically in it. They had followed the Kingsroad towards the end, so he landed about half a mile in front of the East Gate, not wanting Viserion to crash into it.

There was a figure waiting for him, and as soon as she glimpsed him, started running. Jon ran too, even though his legs felt as though they were no longer his own. They met halfway, and Sansa leapt into his arms, barrelling him into the ground. He couldn't hold back the tears of relief, and reached up, brushing back her fiery hair, one finger wiping a tear as it dropped off her cheek. He laughed, too, finally feeling as though he could, as though he was permitted to feel joy, at last.

"Don't you dare laugh at me, you monster! We thought you were dead, it's been over a week!" Sansa looked and sounded furious, to be sure, but she didn't move off him.

"I'm sorry, my love." He would explain later, when he wasn't on the verge of falling asleep, nice and warm, with his sweet girl in his lap.

Sansa sniffed, looking haughty. "Your love, am I?" Still, there was a hint of smugness in the curl of her lips. "Get up, your Grace, before all the gentry come to greet you and find you being all . . . indecent." She got off him and he managed to lever himself off the ground.

"We are married, after all." Jon smiled at her and she tried to smile back, but her lips trembled.

Jon almost didn't want to ask, even though he felt he knew already. He looked back at Winterfell, where a huge white shape was trotting towards him. However, there was someone missing.

"Tormund?"

Sansa shook her head, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I'm so sorry. He went to the crypts to blow the Horn of Joramun, and we found him there . . . after. It doesn't look- "

She cleared her throat, started again. "He didn't suffer, Jon. I'm sure of it."

Jon looked up, blinked. It didn't help. His eyes were full of tears, some spilling over, and he rubbed at his face, roughly.

"I'm so sorry, Jon. I know he was your friend."

Jon nodded, unable to trust his voice enough to answer her. He cleared his throat.

"Karsi and the free folk have been singing songs about him," Sansa went on.

Jon smiled through tears. "He'd like that." He was going to miss Tormund. He was going to miss him so very much.

They walked a few paces more, and Ghost caught up with them. While Jon wasn't pushed to the ground a second time, he did get his face washed more thoroughly than he would have wanted. After patting Ghost on the head and praising him for having kept Sansa safe, they finally reached the gate. More and more people started spilling out of it - Arya, Ser Davos, even some free folk. Then, the bells started ringing, and when Jon strained his hearing, he caught a shout of The King is returned!

Jon put one arm around Sansa, squeezing her to him. Tomorrow, he would tell her everything - the fiery sword, the Night King's threat, the lost city of Always Winter, the dragon eggs, everything. Tomorrow. He caught her looking at him, a small frown on her face, and pulled her to him, enveloping her in his arms, and kissing her soundly until she squeaked. Everyone applauded, cheering, while she blushed, silently promising him a reckoning, once they were alone.

Tomorrow, he would do all that a king did. Today, however . . . today, he would rest.

oOo

Notes

The end is approaching! All I have left is the last chapter, which is more of an epilogue, wrapping up a few loose ends.

Re. Jon's 'Azor Ahai' moment - my final fight was going to be slightly anticlimactic, and then this came to me.