Chapter 3: The Long Road SouthSummary:

Jon Snow, Tormund, and Ghost embark on a grueling journey from the Valley of the Free Folk to Castle Black, battling relentless cold, harsh terrain, and their own inner struggles. Dormund, Tormund's son, reluctantly accepts his father's decision to leave, and the valley's elders outfit the trio with supplies. As they march through snow-covered ridges and the eerie Haunted Forest, their bond deepens through shared hardships, levity, and reflections on the past.

The journey is marked by the toll of survival—brutal weather, dwindling provisions, and the forest's oppressive stillness. Jon wrestles with his identity and the betrayals that led him north, while Tormund's humor and Ghost's steady companionship offer grounding. After weeks of hardship, the Wall emerges on the horizon, stirring memories of Jon's past and the weight of what lies ahead. Together, the trio presses on, united by purpose and an unspoken resolve.

Notes:

I took a lot of inspiration of their journey from The Lord of the Rings. Some of my favorite chapters in the book were the three runners as they chased after Merry and Pippin hoping to rescue them from the Uruk Hai. I can remember reading and rereading that chapter over and over and I wanted to capture the feel of a long arduous journey. I am still working on the over all background of the story including political machinations of the south. I know today I spent eight hours fleshing out the situation in the Riverlands by itself, I am not trying to toot my own horn or anything. I am just trying to give this story the treatment it deserves. Anyway for all of yall that bookmarked the story, it means the world and the kudos. I posted it never expecting anyone to pay attention to it, so thank you all very much. Constructive criticism is always welcomed, I am trying to capture the essence of the characters after multiple years together after the shows ending. On another note, what drove me up the damn wall with Game of Thrones, the ending seasons...people just flipping fast traveled everywhere. This world is large as hell. Beyond the wall is massive. I wanted to capture that, I didnt want them to just show up. I wanted to capture the journey from start to finish. (( Also going to note, I am posting this directly from my work on Archive of our own. Its why the sudden spam of updates. )

Chapter Text

North of the Wall

The wind rolled down from the Frost Fangs, a cold so sharp it bit through even the thickest furs. Snow blanketed the valley, the drifts rising so high in places that even Tormund's massive frame seemed smaller against them. The sun barely crept over the peaks, casting long shadows on the untouched white.

Jon adjusted his cloak, his breath a misty cloud in the freezing air. Behind them, the Valley of the Free Folk was waking slowly, smoke curling from scattered hearthfires. He glanced back once, his brow furrowing as if the land itself might call him to stay.

"Don't go getting all misty-eyed, Snow," Tormund called, breaking the silence. He stomped through the snow toward Jon, his red beard dusted with frost. "It's not like you're leaving a castle and a crown behind. Just a valley full of sheep-shaggers and folk too stubborn to die."

Jon turned back to the horizon. "It's not the valley I'll miss."

Tormund grunted, slapping Jon on the back with a force that nearly knocked him forward. "Bah! You'll be back. No one leaves the Free Folk for long. Even you. You've got wildling blood in you, Snow, whether you like it or not. I'm half convinced Ghost here is just a big white Free Folk in disguise."

Ghost, padding silently beside them, glanced at Tormund and gave a low huff. Tormund laughed. "See? He knows what I'm saying."

Jon shook his head, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "You talk too much, Tormund."

"And you don't talk enough. Makes us a perfect pair, don't you think? You're the brooding one, all dark and quiet, and I'm the one with charm, wit, and a winning smile."

Jon snorted. "Is that what you call it?"

Tormund grinned, his teeth flashing through the frost clinging to his beard. "Aye. I've won hearts with this smile, Snow. You'd be wise to learn from me."

"Ghost doesn't seem impressed."

"Your wolf's got no taste," Tormund shot back. "Never did like me, no matter how much meat I tossed his way. I think he's jealous."

"Jealous?"

"Of course! I'm bigger, better looking, and I've got more hair on my arse than you've got on your head."

Jon rolled his eyes, adjusting his pack as he started walking again. Ghost followed silently, his crimson eyes fixed ahead. Tormund fell into step beside him, still chuckling to himself.

"Mark my words, Snow. One day that wolf of yours is going to wake up and realize I'm the best thing to happen to him."

Jon glanced down at Ghost, whose ears flicked back at Tormund's voice. "I think he's already decided what he thinks of you."

Tormund threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing across the quiet valley. "Well, he's got time to come around. The three of us are going to get real close on this little stroll of ours."

Jon's faint smile faded as he looked toward the distant horizon. The mountains stretched endlessly, their peaks jagged and forbidding. The road south would be long, cold, and full of uncertainty. But for now, Tormund's laughter and Ghost's quiet companionship were enough to keep the weight of it at bay.

"Let's move," Jon said, his voice steady. "We've got a long way to go."

- Two Weeks Before-

The fire crackled low in the center of the camp, its weak flames casting flickering shadows on the worn faces of Jon, Tormund, and Dormund. The snow outside their shelter had stopped falling for now, but the air carried a stillness that seemed to weigh heavily on them. Ghost lay near the entrance, his crimson eyes reflecting the firelight as he kept silent watch.

Jon shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the flames. His voice broke the quiet, steady but heavy. "I'm leaving."

Dormund, seated across from him, froze mid-motion as he reached for another log to feed the fire. He frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. "What do you mean, 'leaving'?"

Jon didn't look up. "I've been here long enough. It's time I head south."

Dormund's frown deepened, confusion quickly giving way to frustration. "You've been here long enough? Snow, you're not just another wanderer passing through. These people—my people—look to you. They follow you."

Jon finally raised his eyes to meet Dormund's. "And they have you now. You're a strong leader, Dormund. You don't need me."

Dormund let out a sharp breath, leaning forward. "That's not the point. It's not about what we need. It's about what you mean to them. The Free Folk follow you because you've proven yourself. You've fought for us, bled for us, and now you want to walk away?"

Jon's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he glanced at Tormund, who sat quietly beside Dormund, his massive frame hunched as he absently poked at the fire with the end of his axe handle. Tormund's expression was unreadable, his silence uncharacteristic.

Dormund noticed Jon's glance and turned to his father, his voice rising with urgency. "Say something, Father. Tell him he's making a mistake."

Tormund didn't look up, his focus remaining on the flames. "Let the man speak his piece."

Dormund stared at him, incredulous. "Speak his piece? You've been closer to him than anyone, and you're just going to sit there?"

Tormund sighed heavily, leaning back against the stone wall behind him. "Jon Snow's not a man you can keep in one place, Dormund. You should know that by now."

Jon's gaze flicked to Tormund, his expression softening for a moment before he turned back to Dormund. "I've fought alongside your people. I've earned their trust. But that's not the same as belonging. The Valley of the Free Folk isn't my home."

"And where is your home, then?" Dormund challenged, his tone biting. "South of the Wall, with the ones who exiled you? The ones who betrayed you?"

Jon's shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained calm. "I don't know where my home is anymore. But I know I can't stay here. Not while..." He hesitated, the weight of his words pressing down on him. "Not while Bran sends assassins to finish what exile couldn't."

Dormund's frustration boiled over. "Then let us protect you! We've fought off his killers before. We can keep you safe."

Jon shook his head. "This isn't just about me. Staying here puts all of you at risk. If I leave, maybe the Free Folk will finally be left in peace."

Dormund slammed his fist against his knee. "And you think leaving will stop him? You think The Southern Kings just going to let you go south and play hero? This isn't a fucking story, Snow. It's life, and life doesn't care about honor or sacrifice."

The fire crackled in the tense silence that followed. Finally, Dormund turned back to his father, his voice quieter but no less impassioned. "You agree with this madness? You're just going to let him walk into whatever death trap this southern cunt set for him?"

Tormund leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he met Dormund's eyes. "It's not about letting him. Jon Snow's a grown man. He's made his choice, and I'm not one to hold him back."

"But why?" Dormund pressed, his voice cracking with emotion. "Why risk everything again? Why leave the valley, leave us, leave—"

"Because that's who he is," Tormund interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. "Jon's not a man who can sit still while the world keeps turning. And truth be told…" He glanced at Jon, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I wouldn't be half the man I am if I didn't follow a little madness now and then."

Dormund shook his head, his frustration giving way to something heavier. He stood abruptly, his jaw tight as he turned away from the fire. "You're both fools," he muttered. "Stubborn, reckless fucking fools."

Tormund watched him go, his smirk fading into a thoughtful frown. When Dormund reached the edge of the firelight, he stopped and turned back, his face softened by a mix of anger and sadness. "If you're going to go, at least let us prepare you. We'll give you everything we can spare."

Jon nodded solemnly. "Thank you."

Dormund's gaze lingered on Jon for a long moment before he left the firelight altogether, disappearing into the shadows.

Tormund leaned back, his axe resting across his lap as he regarded Jon with an appraising look. "You know he's not wrong, don't you?"

Jon sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. "I know."

"Good," Tormund said, a hint of his usual humor creeping back into his tone. "Because when we march south, I'll need you to remind me why I didn't just stay here, gathering snow and chasing sheep."

Jon managed a faint smile. "You're coming?"

"Aye, I'm coming," Tormund said, his grin widening. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't get yourself killed before you get to wherever the hell it is you're going."

- Two Days Later-

The fire crackled low, its warmth fighting back the cold night air that settled over the Valley of the Free Folk. Tormund sat cross-legged by the flames, sharpening the edge of his axe with slow, deliberate strokes. Across from him, Dormund leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His expression was tight, a mixture of frustration and concern that had been building since Jon had first spoken of his plans.

"You don't need to go with him," Dormund said, his voice low but firm. "This isn't your fight anymore, Father. Let the wolf take his journey south if he must, but you've done enough. Stay here. With us. With your grandchildren."

Tormund didn't look up, his hands still working on the blade. "I've gathered enough snow for one lifetime, boy. What would you have me do? Sit here in this valley and waste away, telling tales about battles I'll never see again? My blood hums for the road, for the fight. I'd rather die out there, with a blade in my hand and the wind on my face, than grow old watching the snow fall."

Dormund's fists clenched, his voice rising. "And what of your family? Your sons, your daughters, your grandsons and granddaughters? Don't they matter more than the damned road? You've done your part. You've given enough."

"Enough?" Tormund finally snapped, his voice like a thunderclap. He stood, his axe in hand, and stared down at his son. "I've given everything, aye. And I'd give it all again. But this—" He jabbed the axe toward the horizon, where the mountains loomed dark against the sky. "This is who I am, Dormund. You can keep this valley. Build your houses, raise your sheep, carve out your peace. But that's not for me. Not yet."

"You'll die out there," Dormund said, standing to meet his father's gaze. His voice trembled, anger and sorrow warring within him. "And we'll have to bury you."

Tormund's lips twitched into a faint, sad smile. "Better that than burying me here, old and broken, with nothing left of who I was."

The two men stood in tense silence, the fire crackling between them. Finally, Dormund let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging. "You're a stubborn old fool," he said, his voice thick.

Tormund chuckled. "Aye, that I am. And you're no different."

Dormund stepped forward, his face softening as he embraced his father tightly. Tormund froze for a moment, then returned the embrace, his large hands clapping his son's back. When they pulled apart, Dormund's eyes were glassy, but he kept his voice steady. "Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise," Tormund said, though the weight of the words hung heavy between them.

In the days that followed, the valley's elders and Dormund's family gathered what they could spare for Jon, Tormund, and Ghost. Thick furs, sturdy boots, and packs filled with smoked meat and hard bread were brought to the trio. Dormund oversaw the preparations with grim determination, ensuring that every detail was attended to.

Jon received a finely made bow and a quiver of arrows, crafted by one of the valley's best hunters. "To keep you fed," Dormund had said simply, pressing the weapon into Jon's hands.

"Thank you," Jon replied, his voice quiet but sincere.

Ghost padded silently through the preparations, his crimson eyes watchful as the Free Folk worked around him. The direwolf seemed to sense the significance of the moment, his presence steady and calming.

When the morning of their departure arrived, the valley was bathed in the pale light of dawn. The snow-covered ground shimmered as the sun rose, casting golden hues across the small hovels and smoke curling from their chimneys. The Free Folk stood gathered at the edge of the settlement, watching in silence as Jon, Tormund, and Ghost prepared to leave.

Jon stopped and turned, his gaze lingering on the valley one last time. He saw children playing near the hearthfires, their laughter faint but bright in the crisp air. He saw the elders tending to their tasks, their movements slow but purposeful. He saw a people rebuilding, carving out a life in the harshest of lands.

He felt the weight of their hopes and their history pressing on him. They had followed him once, through the worst of the Long Night, and now they thrived. He wondered if he would ever see this valley again—or if his path south would only lead to his end.

Tormund clapped him on the shoulder, breaking his reverie. "Come on, Snow. The Wall's not going to wait for us."

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he turned his back on the valley. Together, the trio began their journey south, the rising sun casting long shadows across the snow. Ghost trotted ahead, his white form blending with the endless expanse of white, while Jon and Tormund walked side by side, their breaths misting in the cold air.

Behind them, the Valley of the Free Folk grew smaller, but its spirit lingered with them, a reminder of what they had fought for—and what they still had to fight for.

The journey south was grueling, each day a test of endurance against the unyielding cold and treacherous terrain. Hills and ridges stretched endlessly before them, their slopes slick with ice and hidden dangers. The snow was thick, clinging to their boots and weighing them down as they trudged mile after mile. The cold was a constant companion, biting at their faces and seeping into their bones, though years of life beyond the Wall had hardened them to it.

At night, they would huddle around a modest fire, its weak flames flickering against the darkness. Wood was scarce in these barren parts, and they gathered what little they could find—twisted branches, scraps of driftwood, and even dried moss. The fire provided just enough warmth to keep the worst of the cold at bay, but it was the companionship that made the nights bearable.

On moonless nights, the sky above stretched vast and unbroken, a canvas of stars glittering against the black. Tormund would often lie on his back, his thick arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the heavens.

"Look at that," he'd say, his voice carrying a mix of awe and humor. "The gods must've been drunk when they made the stars. Spilled their wine and left a mess up there for us to stare at."

Jon, sitting with his back against a rock, would glance up, his expression unreadable. "Maybe they're watching us."

Tormund snorted. "Watching? Bah! If they are, they've got nothing better to do. Must be bored out of their immortal skulls."

Ghost, lying curled beside Jon, would lift his head at the sound of Tormund's voice, his red eyes reflecting the firelight. Tormund pointed at the wolf. "What do you think, Ghost? Think the gods give a damn about a bunch of fools like us?"

Ghost huffed softly, laying his head down near Jon's sleeping roll.

Twenty days into their journey, the weather turned harsh. Until then, they'd been strangely fortunate—clear skies and calm winds had carried them far, but luck, as ever, was fickle. A massive blizzard loomed over the horizon, a dark wall of swirling snow that seemed to devour the light. The wind howled ahead of it, carrying with it the promise of bitter cold and whiteout conditions.

Tormund came to a halt, his breath misting as he squinted into the distance. He let out a heavy huff, then turned to Jon, pointing with his axe. "Fuckin' storm's comin'. We need to find shelter soon."

They were exposed on the upper part of a ridge, completely vulnerable to the wrath of nature. Below them, a small copes of trees stood huddled together like shivering sentinels, their bare branches offering meager protection. Further down, a cluster of boulders jutted from the snow, their jagged edges casting faint shadows in the dying light.

"Look," Jon said, his voice carrying urgency as he pointed to the rocks. "We may be able to shelter against those. It's not much, but it'll block the wind."

Tormund grunted, his gaze shifting to Ghost. The direwolf's ears were pricked, his crimson eyes scanning the path ahead. Jon knelt beside him, their eyes meeting for a brief moment. An unspoken message passed between them, and Ghost turned, bolting down the ridge to scout the best route. His white form blended with the snow, a fleeting shadow against the approaching storm.

"That wolf," Tormund said, shaking his head as he adjusted the straps of his pack, "is more human than most of the Free Folk I've known."

Jon didn't answer, his focus on the path Ghost had begun to carve. The direwolf moved with uncanny precision, finding the safest and quickest way through the treacherous terrain. Jon and Tormund followed, their steps heavy as the wind picked up, carrying the first stinging flakes of the storm.

The storm was nearly upon them as they reached the small stand of trees and the boulders. The temperature plummeted further, the freezing winds howling like wolves in the night. The sparse trees provided little in the way of cover, their bare branches swaying and creaking under the weight of snow. Against the largest boulder, Jon and Tormund pressed their backs, seeking some reprieve from the relentless wind.

"It'll provide us some shelter," Tormund said, his voice nearly lost in the roar of the storm, "but mark my words, this shit'll bury us if we don't build a fire."

Jon nodded, pulling his cloak tighter. "Aye, it's far from a house. As if one wall and no roof can build a fucking house," he remarked dryly.

Tormund chuckled, a rare sound in the face of such brutal conditions. "Aye, and no bloody door either."

The two men began their preparations, working with an urgency born of survival. They set their sleeping rolls as makeshift windbreaks, angling them to block as much of the biting gusts as possible. Tormund hefted his axe—a heavy, sharp weapon he had taken from one of the assassins sent after Jon years ago. The blade had seen many winters since, its weight a comfort in his hands as he hacked at the brittle branches of the trees around them.

"Damn fool who carried this thing thought he could sneak up on us," Tormund muttered, slicing through a thick bough with a grunt. "Not much for subtlety, that one."

Jon joined him, gathering the cut branches and stacking them against the boulder. Together, they worked in grim silence, the snow falling around them in a frenzied blur. By the time the fire was lit, their fingers were stiff and aching from the cold, and the storm had enveloped them completely.

They hunkered down, the fire crackling weakly but providing just enough warmth to stave off the worst of the frost. Ghost curled close beside them, his thick fur a welcome source of heat as he pressed against Jon's side. The direwolf's steady breathing and the flicker of firelight gave the moment a fleeting sense of calm amidst the chaos.

The storm raged through the night, its fury unrelenting. Snow piled around them, forming deep drifts that threatened to smother their makeshift camp. The fire consumed nearly all their fuel, its light dimming as the final embers crackled in defiance of the cold. But at last, as dawn approached, the winds began to die, and the storm's wrath subsided.

Before the first light of morning broke through, the world was transformed. The snow stretched unbroken in every direction, a pristine, glittering expanse. Above them, the sky was a deep, velvety black, the stars brighter than Jon had ever seen. The northern lights danced across the heavens, their ribbons of green and blue casting an ethereal glow over the landscape.

Tormund sat silently for a long while, his eyes fixed on the lights. For once, the wildling seemed at a loss for words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. "No matter how much I've seen that, it's always left me in awe."

Jon turned his gaze to Tormund, his expression softening. "Aye," he murmured. "That it does."

Ghost, ever the silent companion, lifted his head, his crimson eyes reflecting the dancing lights. For a moment, he seemed to share their awe, his gaze fixed on the heavens as if in unspoken agreement. Together, the three of them sat beneath the starlit sky, their breaths misting in the frigid air before dawn's first light would break across the horizon.

The trio hunkered down for another day in their makeshift camp, exhaustion weighing heavily after weathering such a storm. The biting cold sapped their strength, but they knew the road ahead would demand more from them. On the second day after the blizzard, they stirred with the first hints of dawn, shaking off the stiffness in their limbs and gathering what little remained of their provisions. Their bodies bore the wear of the journey, but their resolve remained firm.

Day after day, they trudged through the snow-covered terrain, their steps slow and deliberate. The weight of their packs grew lighter as their precious provisions dwindled. The bitter cold remained constant, gnawing at their exposed skin despite their thick furs. At night, they huddled under the moonless sky, the stars a silent audience to their journey. Ghost, ever watchful, stayed close, his warmth a comfort against the relentless chill.

Jon's thoughts churned as they walked, the silence of the trail giving him too much space to brood. He thought of Bran, of the assassins that had dogged his steps for years. He thought of Tormund's interrogations, the hard truths revealed. Bran was behind it all. His brother, the Three-Eyed Raven, had deemed him a threat, a piece to be removed from the board. Jon couldn't fathom it—the depth of betrayal, the cold logic that had driven Bran to kin-slaying.

But his thoughts didn't end there. The past, with all its mistakes and regrets, loomed large in his mind. He remembered his younger years at Winterfell, the quiet resentment he'd harbored toward his uncle Eddard, toward Catelyn. Being treated as a bastard had stung deeply, but in hindsight, he saw the truth. His life before the Wall had been a good one. It was only after leaving Winterfell that he'd come to understand the true struggles of the smallfolk, the harshness of the world beyond the walls of his childhood home.

As the days stretched on, the trio pressed southward, their supplies nearing exhaustion. By the seventh day after the blizzard, the southern edges of the Frostfangs came into view. The jagged peaks gave way to rolling hills and sparse, frozen woods. Ahead lay the Haunted Forest, its dense, shadowed expanse a stark reminder of how far they still had to go. Beyond it, somewhere in the distance, the Wall awaited.

The Haunted Forest loomed ahead, its trees thick and ancient, their branches twisted like gnarled fingers. The trio entered cautiously, their steps muffled by the snow. The stillness was eerie, the forest seemingly holding its breath. The dense canopy above blocked much of the weak sunlight, casting everything in a dim, greenish haze.

Their supplies were nearly gone. Jon finally sighed and stopped, Ghost and Tormund halting in silent agreement almost at the exact same moment. They unshouldered their nearly empty packs, the weight of hunger pressing down on them as much as their burdens. Inside the packs, they found only a few strips of jerky left—not nearly enough for three.

Jon's shoulders slumped with weariness. "We need to catch some game," he said plainly. "We still have nearly a fortnight's journey to the other side of the forest."

Tormund let out a huff, leaning on his axe as he cast a glance at Ghost. "If you take this great big fucker and go find us some game, I'll get a fire going and set up camp."

Jon nodded, unslinging his bow. Ghost let out a low huff, his crimson eyes flicking toward Tormund.

"Good," Tormund grunted. "Go on then. But keep an eye out—them frozen fucks might be gone, but this place always felt like ghosts were lurking about."

Jon gave a brief nod but said nothing. The Haunted Forest lived up to its name. Every sound—the creak of a branch, the faint rustle of leaves—felt louder in the oppressive silence. Thick and untamed, the forest had grown unchecked for centuries. It was a place where even seasoned warriors felt small and unwelcome.

Jon and Ghost moved away, leaving Tormund to his work. They walked for nearly a mile before coming upon a faint game trail, the snow disturbed by fresh prints. Jon crouched, examining them. Hoved animals. Deer. The tracks were accompanied by smaller hoofprints—a group, perhaps a family. Game had been slow to return after the Long Night. The Night King's undead army had decimated the wild herds, but life, stubborn as ever, had found a way. Prey animals had begun to return, and with them, predators.

Jon tightened his grip on his bow, his eyes scanning the forest. Ghost moved ahead silently, his white form blending with the snow. They followed the tracks, their steps careful and deliberate. Soon, they came upon a clearing where several deer pawed through the snow, searching for evergreen shoots. Most of the animals were skinny, their ribs visible—lingering signs of the recent blizzard.

Jon crouched low, positioninghimself behind a cluster of evergreen bushes, the bow held steady in his hands. He glanced at Ghost, who met his gaze briefly before disappearing into the snow like a phantom. The direwolf circled the clearing with an uncanny silence, his movements fluid and deliberate.

Jon waited, his breath slow and steady as he nocked an arrow. Time seemed to stretch as the deer pawed at the ground, oblivious to the silent predators watching them. Jon's fingers tightened on the bowstring; his muscles taut with anticipation.

Then, in a single fluid motion, he loosed the arrow. It struck a small doe broadside, the perfect shot piercing just behind its shoulder. The animal collapsed instantly, its life ebbing away in silence. At that moment, Ghost lunged from the shadows, his white form a blur as he seized a young stag by the throat. The stag's panicked struggle was brief, ending with a sickening crunch as Ghost's powerful jaws crushed its windpipe.

Jon rose from his hiding place, his bow lowered as he approached the clearing. "Good, Ghost," he murmured, his voice low and calm. "You did good. Now we have enough for the three of us."

Ghost huffed softly, his bloodied maw glistening in the pale light. He crouched over his kill for a moment before lifting his head, his crimson eyes watching Jon as he set to work. The direwolf tore into the stag's liver while Jon swiftly gutted the doe, leaving the entrails behind for the scavengers.

With both animals prepared, Jon hoisted the doe onto his shoulders. Ghost gripped the stag by its neck, dragging it through the snow as they made their way back to camp. When they returned, Tormund's face lit up with a mix of relief and excitement.

"Fuckin' finally!" Tormund exclaimed, throwing his arms wide. "All this dried-up shite was turning my guts to stone. I need somethin' bloody!"

Jon lowered the doe to the ground, his face unreadable as he began preparing the meat for cooking. Tormund was already gathering what remained of their firewood, his axe swinging as he split branches with practiced ease. Ghost settled nearby, his gaze flicking between the two men as if satisfied with their efforts.

That night, as the fire crackled and the scent of roasting meat filled the air, the trio sat together under the dense canopy of the Haunted Forest. The stars above were barely visible through the twisted branches, but the warmth of the fire and the company of companions made the shadows feel less oppressive.

Tormund tore into a piece of venison, his beard glistening with grease as he chewed noisily. "This," he declared between bites, "is what life's about. Meat, fire, and good company. You can keep your bloody castles and thrones, Snow. This is where I belong."

Jon glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're easy to please."

"Aye, that I am." Tormund grinned, raising his slab of meat as if in a toast. "And you? Still brooding, I see. You need to learn to enjoy the little things."

Jon didn't respond, his gaze drifting to the fire. Ghost lay curled beside him, his ears twitching as the flames cast shifting shadows on the forest floor. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional snap of burning wood.

Tormund's voice broke the silence again. "Snow, why are you so sullen? We've got good food, a warm fire. What's got you twisted up like a southerner?"

Jon didn't answer for a long moment, staring into the fire. His stomach was full, but his mind churned. His hand rested on Ghost's massive head, his fingers absently stroking the fur behind the wolf's ear. Ghost, in answer, kept his tongue lolled out of his mouth in silent contentment.

Finally, Jon spoke, his voice low. "I keep thinking of who I'm supposed to be. I was brought up as a bastard, under the honorable Eddard Stark. My entire life has been a lie. For as long as I can remember, I've been a man of the Watch, the Lord Commander, a dead man, the King in the North, and the heir to the Iron Throne." He paused, his gaze unwavering as the flames danced before him.

"My father was the crown prince of Westeros," he continued. "His father was the Mad King who murdered my other grandfather and uncle. I have hints of madness in my veins. I have the blood of fools running through me."

Tormund stayed quiet, tearing at his meat as he watched Jon with a sidelong glance.

"Who was I meant to be, Tormund?" Jon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The Prince That Was Promised? The King? I never wanted that. After Daenerys…" He trailed off, the weight of the name hanging in the air like a specter. "After Daenerys, I just wanted to be left alone. But Bran couldn't let me be. Do I march south for the throne? For vengeance? Justice?"

Jon looked away from the fire, his eyes locking briefly with Tormund's. "Would the smallfolk even want another Targaryen on the throne?"

Tormund took his time chewing before swallowing with a heavy gulp. "Fuck the smallfolk, Snow," he said bluntly. "They want bread, not banners. They don't care what name sits on the throne as long as their bellies are full, their fires burn warm, and no one's burning their villages to the ground."

Jon snorted, shaking his head. "You're not wrong."

Tormund leaned back, holding his hands out toward the fire. "You think too much. Always have. The gods didn't make you for thrones, Snow. They made you for this." He gestured around them, his grin returning. "For walking through snow, fighting bastards and frozen fucks, and making friends with big hairy men like me."

Jon allowed himself a faint smile, his hand still resting on Ghost. "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm fucking right," Tormund said, laughing. "Now shut up and enjoy the fire before it goes out."

They stayed in their makeshift camp for another two days, resting and recovering their strength. With their packs now replenished, they took their time preparing meals, ensuring the meat was smoked and preserved for the journey ahead. When the second morning dawned, dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, casting an oppressive gray over the forest. The snow had ceased, but the air was sharp and biting, the wind cutting through their furs like icy blades.

Under that brooding sky, the three set out once more. Ghost often forged ahead, his pale form weaving through the shadows of the forest as he scouted the path. The forest was eerily still, save for the occasional groan of the trees swaying in the wind. The trio rarely encountered signs of life beyond the occasional small game trail or the fleeting rustle of unseen creatures. Their packs, now full of meat, offered some comfort, but the journey remained arduous.

Nights were quieter than their first under the haunted canopy. Even the firelight seemed subdued, its flickering glow barely enough to chase away the oppressive darkness. There was a persistent feeling of being watched, as if unseen eyes lingered just beyond the firelight. The Haunted Forest carried the weight of its name well. Every shadow felt alive, every sound carried an echo of ancient bloodshed.

Jon felt the weight of the past in every step. He could almost hear the whispers of the forest—of Free Folk slaughtered by the Night's Watch, of rangers who never returned, of battles long forgotten. The place felt like a graveyard, steeped in memories of violence and loss. The haunted air gnawed at the edges of his resolve, but he pressed on, head bowed against the relentless wind.

After six grueling days, the forest began to thin. The gnarled branches parted reluctantly, as though loath to release them. It felt like breaking free from a dark and oppressive dream. And there, on the horizon, the Wall loomed vast and indomitable. Its icy expanse shimmered faintly in the pale light, a monolith of frozen time. Castle Black lay at its base, dark and weathered against the gleaming expanse of the Wall.

Jon stopped in his tracks, his breath misting in the cold air. For a long moment, he stood in silence, staring at the familiar sight. Memories flooded his mind, unbidden and sharp. He saw Mance Rayder's army battering against the gates of Castle Black, the flames licking at the sky as the battle raged. He saw Ygritte falling in his arms, her final words a dagger to his heart. He saw himself marching south, his sword raised to reclaim his home and his family's honor.

"Kill the boy," Maester Aemon's voice echoed in his mind, his wise, trembling words cutting through the tide of memory. "Let the man be born. Kill the boy, Jon. Become the man you were meant to be."

A chill ran through Jon, colder than the wind whipping past him. He lingered, staring at the Wall, the enormity of his journey and the path ahead pressing down on him like a physical weight.

Tormund, sensing Jon's mood, leaned against the pommel of his axe and stood silently for a moment. Then, as the quiet stretched, he finally broke it. "Be a long walk back, Snow. May as well keep walking forward, aye?"

Jon turned slightly, glancing back at his companion. A faint smile flickered across his face, his eyes regaining a quiet fire.

"You've got that look again, Snow," Tormund said with a knowing smirk, a wild gleam dancing in his eyes.

"What look is that?" Jon asked, his voice steady but lighter now.

"The one that says you're about to do somethin' mad," Tormund replied, his grin widening. "Don't fret. I'm here. Someone's gotta be the pretty one around here."

The tension broke as they laughed, a rare sound that echoed against the stark landscape. Even Ghost, ever the silent sentinel, gave a low huff as if he, too, shared in the levity. The three of them stood together in that fleeting moment of camaraderie before turning their steps toward the Wall—and the uncertain path that lay beyond.