Chapter 117: Battle of Winterfell 2

In vision, Bran drifted through centuries. He saw forests untouched by man, rivers running crimson from forgotten wars. Then, he reached it—a clearing encircled by weirwoods, their red leaves fluttering without wind.

In the center, the Children of the Forest gathered in a solemn circle.

They plunged a dragonglass dagger into a man's heart. He did not scream. His eyes turned ice-blue. His skin blanched. His soul burned. Bran followed his transformation through time—the same man in different forms, now cloaked in night and crowned in thorns of frost.

At the moment of his creation, Bran noticed something strange: his body was wrapped in ancient roots, pulsing with the power of the Old Gods. They fed him. Sustained him. Held him.

When Bran returned to the present, his breath caught. The wind stirred around the weirwood.

He summoned the others.

Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, Arya, Sansa, and Varys gathered in the Great Hall, cloaks dripping from melted snow. The hearth roared.

Bran's voice was calm. "The Night King cannot be killed by dragonglass or Valyrian steel. He was made by the Old Gods. Only the tree that gave him life can undo him."

"Where is it?" Jon asked.

Bran unrolled a tattered map. "The Isle of Faces."

"I'll go," Daenerys said immediately.

Bran shook his head. "You cannot. Only those who believe in the Old Gods may walk there. It is protected."

"Then I'll go," Jon said.

Bran handed him a carved map—etched into weirwood bark, burned into memory.

That night, Jon mounted Rhaegal. The battlement was quiet save for the wind. Jon studied the stars and the weirwood map Bran had given him, cross-referencing the path in his mind. Though he had never seen the Isle, something in his blood seemed to steer him north by instinct—like a compass etched in his bones. He whispered an old Stark prayer to the Old Gods and gripped Rhaegal's reins.

The Isle, Bran had said, could not be found by maps or eyes alone. Only those who believed would see it. And Jon did.

He leaned forward and urged the dragon toward the black horizon.

Hours passed. The world fell quiet beneath them.

At last, the Lake of the Green Men came into view—circular, still, black as pitch. Its waters reflected no stars, no moonlight. It was as though it drank the sky."

Hours passed. The world fell quiet beneath them.

At last, the Lake of the Green Men came into view—circular, still, black as pitch. Its waters reflected no stars, no moonlight. It was as though it drank the sky.

Rhaegal hovered over the shoreline. The cold deepened. Jon dismounted and unbuckled his sword. He removed his armor piece by piece, leaving only the carved branch strapped to his back.

"You don't have to do this alone," Paxter said quietly.

"I do," Jon replied. "This place wasn't made for kings. Only believers."

Jon stepped into the water. It was agony. Every muscle seized, every breath stabbed his lungs. But he pushed forward, strokes wide and slow, through the supernatural mist.

As he neared the island, whispers echoed all around him. Names. Memories. Laughter and grief. "You are the sword that never bent…" "You are the wolf's ghost…" "You are the prince who was promised… or not."

He reached the shore on trembling legs.

The Isle of Faces was ancient.

Weirwoods arched like cathedral vaults. Faces carved into bark wept red sap. The air was thick with incense—natural, sweet, decaying. No birds sang. No beasts stirred. Only the crunch of Jon's boots.

He wandered for what felt like hours, until the trees parted and revealed a clearing of roots, stones, and bone.

There it was—the tree. The one from his dream. Carved with spirals and symbols older than the First Men. At its base, a hollow throbbed with the memory of pain. Dragonglass still clung to its roots like blackened teeth.

Jon knelt.

He placed his hand on the tree and whispered, "Forgive me." Then he pulled the branch free.

It pulsed in his hand, warm, alive. A current ran up his arm.

Suddenly, the wind died.

A figure stepped from the shadows—small, cloaked in bark and moss.

"You came," she said. Her voice was soft, and sorrowful. A Child of the Forest.

Jon rose. "I came for what you made."

She nodded. "We wanted to stop men from killing each other. But we made something worse. You bear the fire of old blood. Perhaps you can end what we began."

"I don't want to be a hero," Jon said.

"No hero ever does," she whispered.

She touched the branch. "May the Old Gods guide it. May they remember."

Jon bowed his head.

Then he turned and walked back to the lake.

Rhaegal waited.

He climbed atop the dragon, clutching the blessed weapon.

And they flew—into the dark, toward Winterfell, and destiny.