The North, Beyond the Wall, The Haunted Forest
The Haunted Forest beyond the Wall is a sprawling labyrinth of sentinel pines and bone-white weirwoods. Due to the treacherous terrain and the biting, knee-deep snow, few dare to venture deep into its shadows unless they possess the seasoned instincts of a veteran Ranger or a wildling raider.
At this moment, on the forest's fringe—just out of sight of the Wall's massive iron gates—a small party of ten moved slowly through the drifts. They rode sturdy Northern garrons, ponies bred for endurance with the combined stubbornness of a mule and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. Their broad hooves allowed them to traverse the snow with far more grace than the high-bred destriers of the South.
Since the lands north of the ice were the undisputed domain of the Free Folk, the older Rangers in the group kept their hands near their hilts, their eyes constantly scanning the shifting shadows. The younger recruits, however, were a mix of wide-eyed curiosity and nervous energy, frequently whispering questions to their more experienced brothers.
"Seven Hells! I should be sprawled on a featherbed with a flagon of mulled wine, not out here in this gods-forsaken freezer eating snow!"
Tyrion Lannister, rubbing his aching buttocks as he bounced in the saddle, leaned over to whisper his grievances to Jon—who was still occupying the body of Samwell Tarly.
Jon, currently focused on guiding Sam through a mental "weight-loss meditation," didn't immediately acknowledge the dwarf. Instead, he raised a gloved hand, pointing toward a specific, shadowed cleft in the treeline. His gaze was unwavering, fixed on a point only he seemed to see.
"If you turned back now and missed what lies ahead," Jon asked calmly, "would you not spend your final days on your deathbed rotting with regret?"
"I knew it. You talk exactly like one of those cryptic, spindle-shanked wood-witches," Tyrion grumbled. He cast a quick look around to ensure the other crows weren't listening before narrowing his mismatched eyes at Jon. "I'm beginning to seriously doubt you're Samwell Tarly at all."
Tyrion gave Jon a long, scrutinizing look. "Lemon, that 'lynx' from Horn Hill who came up with you, told me you'd never so much as touched a practice sword, let alone learned to ride. And yet..."
Tyrion dropped his voice even lower, his tone hitching with a sudden, sharp realization. "Your horsemanship is already as steady as my own guards. Tell me... who are you?"
He sucked in a sharp breath, his voice turning into a tremulous whisper. "Seven Hells... you aren't a Faceless Man of Braavos, are you?"
The Faceless Men were the stuff of nightmares; legends claimed they were the deadliest assassins in the known world, capable of peeling away a man's skin to wear his face like a mask.
"I'm a bit short for that, don't you think?" Jon replied, sparing Tyrion a dry, mocking look. "What use would I have for your skin? I'd have to crawl everywhere."
"Fair point," Tyrion muttered, looking slightly relieved.
"I have been chosen by the Gods," Jon stated, returning to his stoic facade. "The Avatar of the Warrior has granted me what I need for the trials ahead."
"You're either a Faceless Man or one of those legendary Skinchangers," Tyrion countered, clearly unconvinced by the religious theater. "But you are certainly no holy messenger. If there were truly all-knowing gods in this world, my homicidal sister would have been struck by a thunderbolt years ago."
"So, the Lion of Lannister is an atheist?" Jon asked.
"I might have held a spark of wonder once," Tyrion said, his voice rising with a touch of agitation that caught the attention of a nearby Ranger. "But meeting a man who masquerades as a prophet so casually... well, it's quite a cold bucket of water. If a fraud like you hasn't been struck down, I might as well start my own priesthood."
Caw! Caw!
A sudden, discordant chorus of ravens cut through their bickering.
Rising before them was a Weirwood of staggering proportions. The trunk was at least ten yards across, its bark a bone-white that made the surrounding snow look dull. Carved into the ivory wood was a massive face, its features twisted as if in an eternal scream. Red sap leaked from the eyes and mouth, congealed like the blood of an old man dying from seven wounds.
Caw! Caw!
The ravens perched among the branches took flight as the party approached, their black wings beating against the air like a warning. They circled the crimson canopy, their beady eyes fixed on the humans with a chilling, observant intelligence.
"We're here," Jon said.
"Fine. You Rangers, set a perimeter," Tyrion commanded, shifting back into his role as a curious noble. "I want to see if I can't take a few cuttings from this monstrosity. I've always wanted to see if a Heart Tree would grow in a Lannister garden."
Jeor Mormont had allowed this little excursion because Tyrion's curiosity was well-documented, and providing an escort was a small price to pay for Lannister goodwill. Since they were still within the usual patrol range of the Wall, the risk was deemed acceptable.
As the Rangers withdrew to keep watch, Tyrion and Jon approached the bleeding face.
Caw! Caw!
The remaining ravens on the branches hopped restlessly, their cries sounding almost like an admonition to stay back.
"So... how should I address you now, My Lord Oracle?" Tyrion asked, his eyes roaming over the carved face.
"Aegon."
"Egg? Like a breakfast—? No... wait." Tyrion's eyes widened. He had studied High Valyrian and its various dialects during his long nights of reading at Casterly Rock. He knew the correct stress for the name of the Conqueror. "Aegon? You said Aegon?"
Tyrion stood as if rooted to the spot. The name was a lightning bolt in the cold air.
"Don't tell me... are we here for the 'Legacy of the Bloodraven'?"
Jon gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Tyrion's breath hitched. Every scholar knew of Brynden Rivers—the Bloodraven. The Great Bastard, the Hand of the King, and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch who had disappeared decades ago. He was the man who had kept the Targaryen dynasty alive through cold iron and dark sorcery.
Legends claimed he had hidden a hoard within the Wall—including Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel blade of Queen Visenya, and a fortune gathered during his time as the King's shadow. For years, the Watch and various fortune-hunters had scoured the ice for the "Bloodraven's Legacy," but nothing had ever been found. The story had faded into myth, remembered only by those who loved old books more than fresh air.
"Let's talk terms," Tyrion said, his Lannister instincts roaring to life. "How do we split the pot?"
"This is Night's Watch land," Jon reminded him coolly. "Do you truly think you can simply haul a Targaryen hoard back to Casterly Rock?"
"And you think you can?" Tyrion shot back. "Seven Hells, I keep forgetting... you aren't exactly an ordinary man, are you?"
He looked at Jon with a renewed intensity. "I've helped you get this far. I want my fair share. A Lannister always pays his debts, boy, but we also collect on our investments. Name a price, or the next time you need a gate opened, you'll find the locks much heavier."
Tyrion stepped closer, his gaze locked onto Jon's with a fierce, uncompromising clarity. He wasn't just a tourist anymore; he was a partner in a potential revolution.