Jon V

The winter storm shrieked wildly, an unrelenting fury of wind and snow that masked all traces of the land he galloped though. Jon Snow urged his horse onward; his breath came in ragged gasps, and each exhale made a visible cloud that quickly vanished in the maelstrom. The fierce chill cut through his furs, biting into his very bones, but it was the gnawing pain in his belly that gnawed at his focus. He looked down at the wound, groaning as he did so. Light crimson was seeping through the dagger that was stuck inside his tunic, a dark reminder of the horrors that descended on him and two hundred other men at the Fist of the First Men. Every movement he made sent a punch of agony through his body. The wound was smoking in the freezing storm, and he could feel his strength leaving him.

The horse stumbled, nearly throwing him, and Jon gripped the reins with blood-slicked hands, urging it to keep going. The sound of the storm was deafening—a relentless roar that drowned out all else, leaving him alone in a world of swirling white. He couldn't see more than a few yards ahead; the icy winds were tearing at him, turning his every breath into a struggle. Jon tried to focus and recall the direction he needed to go, but the landscape had become a featureless wasteland, and the ground was a treacherous expanse of drifts and ice. He had no choice but to trust his horse to find the way, to navigate through the storm, while he fought to stay conscious, his strength ebbing with each passing moment.

His vision blurred, and the biting cold and smoking wound made him feel the darkness closing in on him. It was then, through the violent white winds, that he could hear a sound—a low, sad howl—that cut through the storm's wrath. Ghost? He narrowed his eyes and spotted the two glowing red orbs, vibrant like two torches in a dark room. The direwolf trotted towards him until Jon could even distinguish his pelt against the snow. His eyes widened, despite his harsh circumstances. Ghost never howls; he never makes a sound.

''Ghost…'' Jon said, a cracking low voice that turned into nothing more than a whisper.

The white wolf nudged his leg with his snout and then trotted a few yards ahead before looking back at him, as if instructing him to follow. Jon summoned all the strength that remained to him and tightened his grip on the reins, following Ghost. Step by agonising step, Ghost guided him through the storm. The direwolf seemed to know the way, weaving through the drifts and avoiding unseen pitfalls. The wind whipped around them, but Jon focused on Ghost, following the flash of his white fur, his mind a blur of pain and cold.

Finally, they broke through the storm's grasp, entering a small copse of trees. The air was still here, and the branches above provided some shelter from the relentless snow. Jon's horse, exhausted beyond endurance, gave a shuddering whinny and collapsed, throwing him to the ground. His back hit the snow with a thud, the impact driving the breath from his lungs and sending fresh waves of agony from his wound. Tears ran down his face as he screamed in pain. Jon lay there, catching the breath he had lost. It was so nice here; he wanted nothing more than to keep laying here, shut his eyes, and welcome the darkness. But Ghost denied him; the slightest nudge he gave with his cold nose brought more jolts of pain. He cried out as he forced himself up, using the last of his energy to drag his body deeper inside the grove. He finally noticed where Ghost wanted him to go; there, in the centre of the grove, lay a great weirwood tree. The white bark and red leaves easily distinguish it from the other trees. A grinning face was hatched in the bark. He cursed the happy face it was displaying as he tripped on the tree's big roots and hit his back, feeling the rough bark hit his back. He collapsed against it, too weak to do anything else.

Ghost curled up beside him, providing warmth as he whined softly. He licked Jon's face, his red eyes bringing a sense of calm that cut through his agony. Jon smiled sadly as his hand found its fur, numb fingers stroking his thick fur as he felt his consciousness slip. His mind drifted to the Others, the blue-eyed men that had haunted Jon in his dreams when he was still in Winterfell and now at the Fist of the First Men. He shuddered at the memory, his breath hitching, knowing that if they found him now, he would be too weak to fight, too weak to run.

As he looked up, he noticed the weirwood tree's face seemed to watch him, its carved eyes bleeding red sap, a silent witness to his struggle. The sight made him feel safer, as did the knowledge that the Old Gods were not turning a blind eye to him. The gods of the forest, the gods of the earth, and the North. He thought of his father, Lord Eddard Stark, and his stern and long face that only softened for him. Of his uncles Arthur and Benjen, Arthur had abandoned his vows and dishonoured himself just for him, he had been his shoulder to cry on and his guide through life. Benjen who's eyes sparkled every time he saw him. He thought of Robb and his blue eyes and red hair, which always brought him comfort and joy. And Arya, his sweet little sister, whom he had clung to since her birth. The one who looked like him was the one who understood him. He thought of his mother, Lady Ashara. A woman he had only seen in his dreams, who Jon would always love, the woman who had given her life for him. Fresh tears ran down his face as he thought of all the people who loved him unconditionally. Jon clung to the memory of them all and the hope that somewhere beyond this storm, beyond this nightmare, there was a dawn waiting to break. As the darkness closed in and his vision blurred, he noticed movement behind the trees—small figures with large gold and green eyes whispering and creeping forward with a mystical grace.

''Ghost…'' Jon whispered before the world slipped away.

Darkness was all he saw, and he couldn't help but think that this was the end. This was going to be his experience from now on, and he was with the dead. He could not walk, but he felt his legs, his arms, and his fingers. Where am I?

Open your eyes. Jon heard a voice speak.

He was startled as he suddenly saw the world before him. He was floating, drifting through a twilight sky where colours swirled and danced like a forgotten dream. The world below was a realese of shifting landscapes, impossibly distant yet vivid, and beside him, a crow with three eyes flew, its wings cutting through the air with a sound like whispers in the dark.

''Where am I? Who are you?'' Jon asked, his voice cracking in fear.

I am a crow, and you are flying.

''Are you the Old God? Can you help me?''

I am no God, but I can help you. Say, do you have any corn?

Jon reached out to the crow, his fingers brushing its inky feathers, and suddenly he was no longer floating but plummeting, spiralling down through a vortex of blinding light and shadow. He screamed as the ground rushed up to meet him, and with an impact that should have killed him, he met the ground. He lay there, dazed and panicked, staring up at a canopy of ancient branches and blood-red leaves that seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. He was in a godswood; that much he knew as he stumbled to his feet, but he could not say where. The stone walls and castle were completely foreign to him. The crow landed on one of the branches of the weirwood tree, squawking as its three eyes stared at him mindlessly.

''Ser! Wait for me!'' Jon heard a voice cracking, but it was a happy one.

Jon turned and found a man of his age and height, with a shaved head and deep, large purple eyes. Grinning as he chased an enormous man with thick and shaggy hair, who at first glance he thought resembled Hodor. The egg-headed man of his age stumbled over the roots but caught himself just in time, laughing as he did so.

''Hello!?'' Jon called out, but was ignored.

''I should've never agreed to this,'' The man grumbled, glancing over his shoulder. ''What do you need books about dragons for, anyhow? They're all dead.''

The egg-headed boy smiled, his purple eyes that now appeared bark blue shimmered. ''Secrets.''

The tall man's brow furrowed. ''Secrets? What secrets?''

''The kind that are hidden in plain sight. Forgotten things.'' The bald boy answered simply.

The man shook his head. ''Fine, keep your secrets. But if we get caught, it's my head they'll be after, not yours.''

The boy nodded, his expression becoming serious. ''I know. But it-...''

Jon could not hear what else the boy said as everything dissolved into smoke. And suddenly, he was flying again. The crow flapped his wings next to him.

You must follow. You must understand.

''Why is this happening?'' Jon despaired.

Because winter is coming.

The crow opened its beak and cawed at him. Grey mists from its mouth spewed out and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a child, with nut-brown skin, dappled like a deer's with paler spots. Large queer gold and green eyes, and with hair a tangle of brown, red, and gold. With vines and twigs and withered flowers.

''You're awake.'' The child spoke. No, not a child. It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, with a strange music in it like none that he had ever heard and a sadness that he thought might break his heart. He looked around and noticed Ghost next to him, sleeping but waking up when Jon groaned as he moved himself higher up from the ground he had been laying on. Ghost licked his face, making Jon chuckle. They were not at the grove anymore; twisty, stoney walls and a roof surrounded him. They were in a cave.

''Who are you?'' Jon asked, confused.

''The First Men named us The Children; the giants called us woh dak nag gran.''

''Woh dak nag gran.'' Jon gasped. ''You're a child of the forest.''

''I am. You've come a long way, Jon Stark. And you will have to go further.'' The child said.

''I'm not a Stark.'' Jon said quickly, having been used to retort the matter quickly from people who commented on his looks, fearing that Lady Stark might hear.

''You were not, but now you are. You are many things, just like him.'' The child pointed to a man that Jon had not failed to notice when he examined the sight before him. A pale man in ebon finery sat in a tangled nest of roots, a woven weirwood throne that embraced his withered limbs as a mother does a child. His one orb was pure white, and his body was so skeletal and his clothes so rotted that at first Jon thought it was a corpse, a dead man propped up so long that the roots had grown over him, under him, and through him.

''Who is that?'' Jon asked.

''The one with three eyes, the one who has been in your dreams, the last greenseer.'' The child, nay. The woman replied.

''Right…'' Jon answered cynically. He looked around him once more. Ghost was lying silently beside him. He noticed that the dagger was no longer plunged in him, and a small fire was bringing warmth to the cave some feet in front of them. There was loose dirt and broken bones all around them, and when he was done inspecting everything around him, Jon came to the conclusion that he was indeed dead. This was all a dream; his mind was playing tricks on him. But it felt so real—too real. He thought of Old Nan telling Jon and his brothers and sisters numerous stories of legend. Of the Children and the Others, of giants and ice-spiders. Is all of it true? Was Old Nan telling true? Jon wondered if they all truly lived inside the eye of a blue-eyed giant, like she had told them numerous times. He shuddered at the thought.

''How long have I been sleeping?'' Jon asked.

''A moon and a fortnight.'' The singer answered.

''What?!'' Jon gasped, getting to his feet. It had only felt like hours between him being in that grove and now. Dread filled him; he could've been in Winterfell long ago if he had ridden his horse near death. What if the Others are already there? Attacking the Wall as I walk this cave?

''He has a plan for you. You must follow.'' The singer spoke.

''I don't want to follow. I want to get out of this damn cave.'' Jon said

The singer's voice was a soft murmur. ''The last greenseer has seen what is to come, as have you, Jon Stark. You must take us south.''

Jon raised an eyebrow. ''Oh, must I? You and your 'crow' invade my dreams, invade my head! Yet you presume I'm in the mood for playing what exactly? A local escort for mythical creatures?''

The singer's expression remained stoic. ''You may jest, but the path we ask you to walk is not without purpose. He has foreseen the need for us to be south of the wall. The darkness gathers, and we must be ready.''

Jon was in no mood to lead this small creature anywhere; the same creature that had invaded his dreams, invaded his head. But he feared what would happen if he refused the request, and he wanted to get south anyhow. He wanted to warn the realm that doom was approaching; he wanted to find his uncle Benjen; now he had lost two uncles. He prayed to the gods that both were still among the living and not blue-eyed corpses.

Jon's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slightly, his tone sharper. ''And where exactly does this wizard want you to go? A nice stroll down to the Wolfswood? Or to King's Landing for a royal audience?''

''To where our magic is strongest, you men call it the Isle of Faces.''

Jon sighed heavily, his mind racing. He had never been that far south; it was hundreds of miles from here, and he did not know the way there. He did not even know how he could get them there. He could find Winterfell or Castle Black. From there, men could assist them. But no one has seen the children for thousands of years; the gods know how they would react. But he needed help. It would have to be Winterfell; he only trusted his lord father and Robb with this. My bloody luck, this is. ''Fine. I'll take you south.''

Days and nights passed inside the cave as he and the creatures were getting ready for their long journey across the cold. He had been told that they were somewhere within the haunted forest. He cursed himself for mistaking east for south, but he had never seen a snowstorm that wild, so wild that you could not see anything but white. Both Jon and Ghost had been fed different things, mostly meat from the horse that had died in the grove. He never asked but wondered greatly how they had managed to get it to the cave. One time he was fed a paste of weirwood seeds and sap that tasted horribly.

Jon glanced at the greenseer, who had not spoken a word to Jon during his stay in the cave; his presence was both a comfort and a mystery. His one eye was still that of a white pearl. Nearby, the Child of the Forest, whom Jon had come to call Leaf for the earthy scent that clung to her, moved with silent grace. Her eyes are ancient and knowing. As the days passed, Jon had seen more of the Children of the Forest, their presence a constant but quiet part of the cave's rhythm. They moved like whispers, their eyes reflecting the wisdom of countless ages. Some would all be going with him. Five and ten in total, but Leaf was the only one who could speak the common tongue and the old tongue. The rest sang in their own language, the true tongue.

''Leaf,'' Jon said, breaking the long silence. ''You haven't told me why he's always asleep.''

Leaf looked up, her golden eyes catching the firelight. ''He is not truly asleep,'' she replied softly, her voice sad and beautiful. ''He dreams the dreams of the world, seeing through the eyes of the past and the future.''

Jon frowned, running a hand through his unruly hair. ''That's all well and good, yet not much use to me if he's always dreaming. I was hoping he'd have some answers.''

Leaf smiled faintly. ''The answers you seek will come in due time, Jon son of Stark. The last greenseers dreams are not bound by the times of men. Patience is your ally here.''

Jon cringed; he would always cringe when she called him a Stark. He looked around the cave as he put on his back scabbard, getting ready for the journey. The journey out of the cave was a struggle; the way was cramped, twisty, and so low that Jon soon was crouching. The top of his head was soon scraping and bumping against the ceiling. Loose dirt crumbled at each touch and dribbled down into his eyes and hair. How in the Old Gods did they manage to get me down there? When he was finally out of the cave, his eyes widened as he saw a man of the Night's Watch with a black wool scarf concealing his face; his hands were all black, and he was sitting on the back of an enormous great elk. Ghost, who was right behind Jon, trotted towards the black brother and began to smell him. After a few seconds, Ghost immediately recoiled from him and moved back to Jon, growling low as he did so. Jon agreed with Ghost's assessment. He smells like a wight. He smells of death. A chest was strapped tightly around the elk's back, to Jon's dismay; that would mean that he would have to walk.

''And who are you?'' Jon asked, mentally preparing to draw Longclaw.

''I am a brother of the Night's Watch. And your escort until you reach the wall.'' The brother replied.

Jon looked around himself—to the singer, to the dead man, to the cave with a wizard inside—suddenly he felt the need to massage his forehead. ''Magic, sorcery. I'm not sure if I'll ever understand it.'' Jon said grimly.

''Understanding is not always necessary,'' Leaf said, her tone soft but firm. ''Acceptance is, though. You are part of something greater than yourself now.''

Jon sighed, leaning back against a cold stone, feeling the weight of her words. ''Maybe. But that doesn't make it any easier.''

The coming of the Others, wizards and singers of legend. And they are all calling me a Stark. Winter is coming… He thought grimly.

Ghost stirred beside him, lifting his head and pressing his nose into Jon's side. Jon scratched the direwolf behind the ears, drawing comfort from a familiar sight. ''At least I've got you, boy.'' he murmured. ''Even if everything else is a mystery,''