Jon Snow awoke with a start, his breath ragged and cold sweat clinging to his skin. His heart pounded in his chest as the remnants of the nightmare clung to him like the bitter chill of the North. He had dreamed of Daenerys again. The memory of her wide, disbelieving eyes as he drove his blade into her heart haunted him. Her final words echoed in his mind, laced with venom and anguish.
"You betrayed me, Jon Snow. Just like all the rest."
He sat up abruptly, his head spinning, the chill of the northern air biting against his bare skin. The furs that covered him slid off as he drew in a sharp breath, trying to shake off the lingering dread. He was in a wildling tent, the rough fabric offering little protection against the cold winds that howled outside. The flames of the small fire in the center flickered weakly, casting dim, dancing shadows along the walls of the tent.
Beside him, Tormund Giantsbane stirred, his red beard gleaming faintly in the firelight. The wildling was watching him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, his blue eyes narrowed. "Another nightmare, Snow?" he asked, his voice gruff yet tinged with sympathy.
Jon ran a hand through his tangled hair, his chest still heaving from the remnants of the dream. "Aye," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He glanced at Tormund, who was sitting cross-legged beside him, gnawing on a piece of dried meat. Tormund didn't say anything more, but his gaze lingered on Jon for a moment before he returned to his meal.
Jon wiped the sweat from his brow, his thoughts still reeling from the dream. He had been living among the free folk for six months now, ever since his exile beyond the Wall. The nightmares had followed him here, though. Daenerys's face, her bloodied body, and the betrayal in her voice plagued his sleep most nights. In the waking world, it was easier to push it aside, to bury it beneath layers of duty and survival. But in his dreams, there was no escaping it.
"Best get some food in you, lad," Tormund said, tossing a strip of dried meat in Jon's direction. "Dreams are dreams. Can't eat them."
Jon gave a faint nod, grateful for the distraction. He took the strip of meat and chewed on it, though he barely tasted it. Around him, the wildling camp was beginning to stir. Men, women, and children bustled outside the tent, their laughter and chatter muffled by the thick canvas. The free folk had welcomed him in their own way, though they regarded him with a mix of awe and wariness. The wildlings still saw him as a leader, a figure of respect. But Jon felt like a ghost among them, drifting aimlessly in a life that didn't feel like his own.
Ghost, his direwolf, lay curled by the entrance of the tent, his white fur almost blending in with the snow. The direwolf's red eyes flicked open as Jon stirred, the beast's ears twitching in silent recognition. Ghost had been Jon's constant companion, never straying far from his side. A part of Jon felt comforted by his presence, a tether to the past when things made more sense.
Tormund grunted as he rose to his feet, stretching his muscular arms. "We head north today," he said, glancing at Jon. "Hunting party. Could use your help."
Jon nodded absently, but his mind wandered elsewhere. He thought of Sansa, now the Queen in the North, ruling Winterfell with the steel of their mother, Catelyn Stark. Sansa had always been strong, but Jon wondered how she fared in a world without him. Did she still think of him? Did Arya?
Arya. His sister—or was she his cousin, now that the truth of his parentage had been revealed? Arya was gone, off on her own journey beyond the edge of the known world. He missed her fiercely, though he knew she was too wild and too free to remain tethered to any place for long. Arya had always been like that, a lone wolf.
As he chewed on the dried meat, Jon found himself slipping into the familiar fog of memories. The fire crackled softly, and the conversation around him became a distant murmur. He thought of how different things could have been. Six months ago, he had stood before the Iron Throne, the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. He could have been king. He had the blood of Targaryens and Starks in his veins, the claim to the throne undisputed after Daenerys's fall. But he hadn't wanted it. Did he?
His brow furrowed as he mulled over that question. The North had been his home, not King's Landing. He had been raised at Winterfell, the bastard son of Eddard Stark, and even though the truth had come to light—that he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark—Jon still thought of himself as Ned Stark's son. As the boy who had wanted nothing more than to be accepted.
Winterfell. He longed for it. The cold winds, the familiar stone walls, the hearths of the Great Hall, and the smell of pine in the air. He missed his family. Sansa, Arya, even Bran, who had become something otherworldly, no longer the brother he had once known. And he missed Robb, and Rickon, both lost to the wars that had torn Westeros apart. His mind turned to his father, Eddard Stark, a man of honor and duty who had raised him, loved him, despite his bastard status. And then to Catelyn Stark, who had never truly accepted him because of the shame his existence had brought to her house. Even now, Jon wondered what Catelyn would think of him, knowing the truth of his birth.
Just as Jon was sinking deeper into his thoughts, a tug on his sleeve pulled him back to the present. One of the wildlings, a young boy with bright eyes and a thick fur cloak, was standing beside him, pointing toward Ghost.
Jon turned and saw his direwolf standing a few paces away, his massive white form blending into the snow. Between his jaws, Ghost held something—a strange object, wrapped in ragged cloth. The wolf padded forward, dropping the object at Jon's feet, then backed away, his eyes fixed on him.
Jon bent down and unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a shard of what appeared to be ice, but not just any ice. It shimmered unnaturally, almost like the crystalline blue of the White Walkers. A coldness emanated from it that made the hairs on the back of Jon's neck stand on end.
He stared at the shard, his heart thudding in his chest as the memory of the Long Night rushed back to him—the White Walkers, the army of the dead, the terror they had wrought on the living.
Tormund stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the object. "What is it?" he asked, his voice low, laced with unease.
Jon didn't answer. He could only stare at the shard, a sinking feeling in his gut.
He thought the White Walkers had been defeated, wiped from existence by Valyrian steel, and dragon glass. But now, looking at this strange shard, he wasn't so sure.