Knowing nothing, but learning.
Jon
A year ago, Jon would have listened to Old Nan's stories and laughed. He would have laughed at all the fanciful the tales of grumpkins and snarks, giants and children, Others and ice dragons. As a child, he would have listened entranced, but he was adult now. He knew that tales of magic and monsters were nothing more than just bits of superstition, clouded by forgotten history.
Not for the first time, Jon realised that he knew nothing.
In the last month alone, everything had changed.
He had ridden with wildlings. He had seen giants and mammoths. He had seen the dead rise again. He had seen the army of the dead, and the ice spiders that hounded the living. He had seen the Others themselves, and even killed one with his own blade.
He had seen an ice dragon burst from a glacier. He had seen the children of the forest in the flesh, and he had seen a tunnel so old and deep it felt like they were walking in the bones of the earth itself.
The Old Gods are heavy here, Jon thought, staring around the roots of the weirwood trees. It was like he could feel the history in the air - an ancient power that made his skin tingle.
The tunnels twisted everywhere, for miles and miles. It had taken two days to cross through them, running alongside underground streams. It was dark, but his guide led the way. The child of the forest was swift and soft of foot, while Jon limped, gasped and struggled. He made slow progress. The child of the forest was quiet, but never impatient. She brought nuts, herbs, milk and occasionally chewy meat to eat as they journeyed. The food was bitter, but it was healthy and the exercise was good. Jon grew stronger every day.
He occasionally saw others of her ilk in the tunnels. They were scrawny things, ragged and wild, wearing dappled brown rags with vines, twigs and withered flowers woven in their hair. They talked in a tongue that Jon couldn't even recognise. Their voices were high-pitched, fluid and almost singsong.
Sometimes, the child of the forest that led him would talk as they walked, telling him stories of their history. "We have been down here for millennia, and we have still not explored all of the tunnels," she explained in her high and sweet voice. "They have been our sanctuary and our home, for longer than men have walked these shores."
"How could you have possibly mined something this large?" Jon gasped, stumbling over another rock. The tunnels were beyond anything he'd ever imagined. They must be all under all the Haunted Forest.
"We did not. We sung. We sung to the earth and the earth danced for us. Over generations, these tunnels were formed."
The tunnels were not always the same. The way he had arrived was scarcely large enough for a child, and sometimes the path narrowed further. But at other times, the caverns expanded. He had seen tunnels as high as castles, vestibules under the earth as large as Winterfell itself. A giant could have walked comfortably through most of the passageway.
"And the man you're taking me to see?" Jon demanded. "This greenseer."
"The greenseer came later. He was a man once, like you, but he took shelter alongside us and he joined with our song. He is the last of the humans that cared to learn our song - the last greenseer for centuries."
Jon frowned. "I don't understand."
The child of the forest gave him a sidelong glance. "Yes, King Snow," she agreed.
There was a pause. She didn't stop walking, and Jon didn't stop limping after her. The silence was deafening for a few steps.
"Why do you call me that?" Jon asked. She had said the same when they first met at the mouth of cave. "Why do you call me King Snow?"
"That is your name."
Jon shook his head. "No, my name is Jon Snow," said Jon. "I'm no king."
"Then perhaps it is a mistranslation on our part," she replied. "Your tongue is so rough and cumbersome compared to the True Tongue."
It took Jon a good long time before he frowned, and realised that that was not quite an answer.
He had to watch his footing. They were heading for another junction in the tunnels, a cavern as large as large as the great hall of Winterfell, with stone teeth hanging from the ceiling.
There were bones underfoot of every size; animal bones, human bones, bones that he had never seen before. He was starting to see the children more frequently, all flitting about and staring at him unblinkingly.
Eventually he made it to the centre of the tunnels, where the weirwood roots were thickest. The white roots were threaded all through the earth around him, denser and thicker than anywhere else. Then the route descended, and descended. Eventually he started to hear the rippling flow of water, the low roar of a distant waterfall.
The path brought them a great cavernous opening over a black abyss, with rushing water echoing below in the darkness. The river looked at least six hundred feet below them, swift and black, flowing down to a sunless sea. It made Jon gape just staring at it.
Near a natural bridge across the abyss there was a throne of woven roots. The man waiting in it looked so decayed that, at first, Jon thought it was a corpse. The corpse of a pale lord in ebony finery. Then, the corpse shuddered. Slowly, one eye opened.
It was alive. A pale, skeletal man in rotted black clothing on a weirwood throne of tangled roots. What little skin remained was white and gaunt, stretched like white leather over old bone, aside from a scarred red blotch on the side of his neck and cheek. There were leaves sprouting from his skull, mushrooms growing across his body, and dirt and dust thick in his hair. An ancient lord that had half-morphed into the weirwood roots that surrounded him.
The old man had withered, white hair long enough to reach the earthen floor. He was missing one eye, while the other was blood red. Weirwood roots surrounded the man, twisting around and through him, snaking out of his leg and his empty eye socket.
When he spoke, his voice was slow and dry, as if he had forgotten how to speak.
"… And so it seems that even after a hundred years and with a thousand eyes, a man can still be surprised…" The pale lord murmured through a dry, hoarse throat. Jon could only stare in stunned horror. "Welcome, Jon Snow. The hour is late and you were not expected."
Jon felt his breath grow shallow. The children of the forest flickered away into the darkness. The cavern was eerily quiet. "You know who I am?"
The single red eye was unfocused, but somehow Jon knew the man was staring intently.
"Yes."
"How?" Jon demanded.
"The weirwood's roots run deep. The greensight runs deeper. I watched you with a thousand eyes and one. I saw you in my dreams; your place, your past, maybe even your future. Who knows?"
"You are the last greenseer," Jon said breathlessly. Everything he had ever heard Maester Luwin say on greensight came rushing back. Those tales, they had always seemed nothing more than legends.
"I am. I had a name once, and I've had many names since. For now, call me…" he seemed to pause, thoughtful. "… the three-eyed crow."
"You don't look like a crow to me."
Was there a flicker of smile on sunken lips? "I can look like many things."
Jon took a deep breath. His was head was spinning. "It was you. You were the one controlling the ravens, you were the one who guided the stranger to me."
There was a soft nod. "Why? How?" Jon demanded. "I don't understand…"
"Yes," the three-eyed crow said, sounding sympathetic. "Ask your questions, Jon Snow. I will answer what I can."
For a moment, Jon struggled to speak. "… The dragon," he said finally. "Tell me about the dragon."
"The dragon is a remnant of an age long gone. One of the dragons of Old Valyria. Of a different time, before the Doom."
The statement didn't make sense. "What was it doing here ? It was buried under the glacier!"
"Yes. Buried for over four hundred years. Four hundred years ago, the dragon fled the Valyrian Doom. There were many that did, but that dragon escaped further than most." His red eye focused on Jon. "You must understand, after the Doom, after the great cataclysm, the whole world changed. It was more than just an explosion; ever since the Doom, the old ways of sorcery and magic began to dwindle. It was a slow decline, but gradually the magic started to fade from the world.
"Dragons are creatures of magic. They live and breathe it. Their existence is tied to the movement of the world. Once the magic started to fade, the dragons did too. It was gradual, and it was inexorable." The three-eyed crow's voice was a dry rasp, the laboured voice of an old man. A voice that hadn't been used in many years. "But this dragon attempted to take refuge, long ago. It fled from the fire into the ice."
Jon must have looked confused. "The Wall is more than a mere physical barrier, far more. It was built to keep magic out, but it also served to keep magic in," the three-eyed crow explained. "After the Doom, the lands Beyond-the-Wall became one of the few remaining havens of magic in this world. That was why the dragon took shelter here, that was how it survived the bane that would eventually kill every other dragon in the world."
"But it was buried."
"Yes. The ice proved just as dangerous as the fire. The dragon was weakened and it collapsed, to be buried underneath the ice for four hundred years."
The old man paused, taking a wheezy breath. His voice was a low rasp. "I knew of the dragon that was buried there. I saw it occasionally in my dreams. A thing of faded power, such things tend to attract the sight. I thought it was dead, though - its body may as well have turned to stone," the greenseer mused. "I did not believe that anything could wake it, yet I suppose that dragons have always had a way of defying the normal laws."
"Yet it's alive now." Jon's hand touched the scar under his furs gingerly. "It was my blood, wasn't it? I was bleeding. My blood woke it?"
The greenseer gave a quiet nod. "But it was buried there for four hundred years ?" Jon demanded. "Surely someone else must have bled on that glacier in all that time? Why did my blood cause the dragon to wake?"
"Now isn't that the question?" The three-eyed crow said. "I've been musing on that myself for a while now. Tell me, Jon Snow, do you have Targaryen blood running through your veins?"
"Targaryen?!" The thought was so outlandish he could barely process it. He knew his history. The Starks were descended from the blood of the First Men, about the furthest lineage from Targaryens possible. "Of course not - my father was Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Was he imagining it, or did a faint expression of doubt pass over the old man's face? "And your mother?" the greenseer asked.
Jon hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted. "I never met my mother."
"You have the blood of Old Valyria inside of you, Jon Snow. Powerful blood, too - from a thick line. The dragon responded to it."
He didn't know how to respond to that. Targaryen? Could Ned Stark have birthed me on a Targaryen? It hardly seemed possible - his father had been fighting Targaryens at the time. Who could possibly have…?
Enough. This is meaningless . Jon had spent his childhood guessing at his mother, and didn't care to continue now.
"The Others," Jon demanded, changing the subject. They were the enemy that he was sworn to fight. "Can you help me stop the white walkers?"
"Help? I can do what I can." The voice was solemn. "But that is not enough."
Jon's hands clenched. "The children have magic that can keep the Others out!" he said. "You can free wights from the Other's control! We need that power, you could-"
"The power is dead, Jon," the greenseer said in sadness. "The children that you see here are the last of their kind - barely threescore left. They no longer have the strength to match the cold. Make no mistake - this place, this refuge is where the children have come to die. They are the last of the last. The only songs they can sing now are songs of mourning."
"You're not dead yet!" Jon nearly shouted. "If the Others hit the Wall then everyone will die!"
"Yes," he agreed. "It might be in one year or a hundred years, but sooner or later the Wall will fail. The Long Night will return to the world, and winter will rule. And this time there will be no children left to fight against it."
Arya. Robb. Bran. Sansa. Rickon. His mind swam with the faces of all the people he had to protect. "Then why are you sitting there?" Jon shouted angrily. "We need to fight! How do we stop it?"
The three-eyed crow didn't reply. Jon could have shouted all he wanted, but the silence seemed to reign in the large cavern. It was so cavernous and ancient that Jon could have shouted at the top of his lungs, but he would never be able to fill it.
There was a long moment of quiet. Jon shuffled slightly. "… Can it be stopped?" Jon asked.
"It was stopped once before," the three-eyed crow said with a soft sigh. "Perhaps it can be stopped again. And you are right; we all must do our part."
Jon stared, his eyes hopeful. "The only role that I have left to provide is guidance," the three-eyed crow said. "I am old, older than any man has a right to be, but I will stay and I will teach. I can spread my teachings and maybe I can give the next generation a chance."
"A chance is all that we need," said Jon, wishing that he believed it.
The old man shook his head. Dirt sprinkled from the roots in his hair. "No. We need dragons."
Jon stared. "You can feel it, can't you?" the greenseer rasped. "You are no greenseer, but you have a power in your own right. You can feel the ice dragon."
Jon hesitated. "Yes," he said after a pause. Jon didn't understand how, but he knew what he felt. "The dragon is in trouble. The Others are going to kill it."
"Worse. The Others are going to enslave it. They're going to harness its power for themselves," said the crow. "With the might of the dragon at their side, they could destroy the Wall so much faster. You may well have doomed the world when you woke that beast."
Jon was about to object, but his protests fell short. Some part of him knew that the greenseer spoke the truth.
"We can't allow that to happen."
"No. We cannot," said the crow. "And you must stop it from happening."
Jon could only stare. "You want me to kill the dragon?"
"No. I need you to save it."
"I don't understand."
"I have been trying to connect to the dragon," the three-eyed crow explained. "But it is beyond me. The dragon is lost, angry, and frightened. It will not respond to my power." His head tilted. "But it may listen to you. Your blood woke it; perhaps you have power over it. You must free it from the Other's grasp and bring it to safety."
Bring it to safety? Jon felt more and more lost every moment. It's a dragon.
There was a whole army of dead and worse hunting it. Jon wouldn't be able to get close, and in all likelihood the dragon itself would kill him if he did.
The three-eyed crow stared at him as if he was reading his mind. "The dragon saved your life once," he said. "It carried you from the glacier. Now, it is time for you to return the debt."
"But how?" Jon gasped, a stammer. "How am I supposed to…?"
His voice trailed off. Supposed to what? Supposed to fight through an army of white walkers? Carry a dragon to safety? Not get eaten?
"I can teach you some, the rest you must figure out on your own," said the three-eyed crow. "We have little time and much to do."
He hesitated. "I don't know if I can." Jon let out a breath, silently remembering his vows. "I should head back to Castle Black. I need to warn the brothers. We could mount a ranging, maybe make peace with the wildlings."
"No." The hoarse voice was firm. "Your warnings will only fall on deaf ears, you know they will. This task is more important."
The three-eyed crows face was as stern as stone. "This is your task now. You must rescue the dragon. You must learn to control it. You must keep it out of the Others' grasp at all costs, and then the dragon will become your route home," the crow ordered. "Only then can you go south - to warn the people and unite them against a common foe. If all goes well then maybe, maybe, there is chance to throw back the Long Night once more."
Jon's eyes flickered. "The people will not follow a man of the Night's Watch, Jon Snow," said the greenseer, stressing his surname. "But they will follow a dragon. A dragon might unite the realm."
The silence surrounded them. Jon knew that the children of the forest were watching from the shadows, silent as ghosts.
He took a deep breath, struggling to process it all. His hand instinctively went to the scar on his chest.
I gave up my life for duty once, he thought, clenching his fists. There was no choice but to do it again, it seemed.
His throat was suddenly dry. "This dragon," Jon croaked. "Does it have a name?"
"Once, perhaps. The name has been lost to time."
He didn't reply. It needs to have a name, he thought quietly.
Jon knew that he was weak and injured. His leg was half-lame and his body struggled to move, let alone fight. He knew fine and well that it would be suicide to go back out there even if he were healthy.
Still, I must go. There is nobody else who can.
"I'll do it," Jon said, closing his eyes and taking a deep, painful breath.
The three-eyed crow simply nodded. Jon glanced around the cavern. "How does this work then?" Jon asked after a long quiet. "I just walk out there to meet a dragon?"
"Not yet," said the crow. "A warrior needs a sword."
Jon blinked. "I have no sword. They took my sword." His heart pained slightly with the thought of the Others walking away with Longclaw.
"Hm," the greenseer grunted. "Well then, take mine instead. I have long since had no use for it."
The crow motioned at the shadows weakly, and a child of the forest disappeared into the darkness.
"I don't know if any other sword would be as good as my old one," Jon admitted. The Valyrian blade of House Mormont had been the finest sword Jon had ever wielded, and it had been lost in the white walker's grasp.
"Really?" The old man snorted, with a harsh, throaty sound. A laugh, Jon realised a heartbeat later. The greenseer's laugh was so dry and quiet that he didn't realise what it was at first. "I'll let you be the judge of that."
Jon was about to ask, when the child of the forest reappeared, unnervingly quickly. The child was carrying a blade almost as long as a longsword, but half as wide. It was a long, slender, black sword, the edge of which glimmered even in the faint light of the tunnels. There was a ruby embedded into the pommel, with dark swirls in the metal of the blade, lapping across the sharp edge.
The sword was all black metal, unadorned but elegant, perfectly crafted and balanced, with a wicked gleam to the blade that seemed to ripple like dark water. The tunnels were gloomy, but when the blade hit the light, the edge shimmered like nothing he'd ever seen before.
It was a sword of Valyrian steel.
Jon's breath had caught in his throat. He couldn't look away from the sword. The greenseer's lips twisted upwards slightly.
"… Her name is Dark Sister," said the three-eyed crow softly. "I believe she's been waiting for you."