The Wall, The Haunted Forest, Near the Great Heart Tree
"Do you truly believe I'll have need of you in the future?"
Jon asked the question with a touch of amusement, watching the dwarf's unshakable confidence.
"In your own story, I am the future Hand of the King," Tyrion replied, his voice brimming with pride. "As long as you remain active within the borders of Westeros, our paths are destined to entwine. The Hand is the pivot upon which the Seven Kingdoms turn—the power behind the throne. I've always known my wit surpassed that of the local lords, but I never imagined I'd become the architect of the realm's fate."
Tyrion stood tall, or as tall as he could, radiating a newfound assurance. He didn't believe for a second that Jon's reliance on him would end with a single trip beyond the Wall.
"And what is your price?"
Jon's concession brought a triumphant glint to Tyrion's mismatched eyes.
"Very well! Since you're being reasonable, I won't fleece you. Aside from the weapons, I want at least half of whatever treasure we find. A fair split for the man doing the heavy lifting—or rather, the light squeezing."
Jon's brow furrowed. Sensing the shift in the air, Tyrion's confidence wavered for a fleeting second, his heart fluttering with an unfamiliar anxiety.
"To be honest, gold means nothing to you in this frozen waste," Jon said calmly. "Better that I secure everything now. I will compensate you according to its true value when the time is right. Consider it an investment in your future."
Relieved that Jon wasn't outright refusing to share, Tyrion let out a long breath. "Fine! Fine! As long as you remember—you owe me, and a Lannister always collects."
With the bargain struck, Jon followed the System's internal guidance to the right side of the massive Heart Tree. There, hidden beneath a curtain of ancient vines and weathered stones, lay a narrow fissure. It was a passage so tight only a child—or a man of Tyrion's stature—could hope to enter.
"Did you know about this all along?" Tyrion asked, eyeing the gap with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. He was now entirely convinced that the boy before him was not the Samwell Tarly of Horn Hill. No Tarly had ever set foot this far north, let alone possessed a map of the Bloodraven's secrets.
"It is the guidance of the Gods, My Lord," Jon said, handing him an oil lamp. "Though I know you prefer to believe in things you can touch."
"Hmph! Don't expect me to start praying just because you can find a hole in a tree."
The passage was not an expansive tomb, and within minutes, Tyrion's grunting and shuffling signaled his return. He emerged caked in dark silt and tangled weirwood fibers, looking as though he had wrestled with the forest itself.
"Three chests. Three skeletons in rotted black. And their steel," Tyrion panted, wiping grime from his forehead. "Pass me the rope. I've tied them up as best I can."
Tyrion had come prepared with coils of hemp rope stowed in his saddlebags—a common tool for Rangers that hadn't drawn any suspicion from the quartermasters. Jon, whose strength was now bolstered by his LV3 Warrior status, began to haul the load.
Clatter... Thud...
A black-helmed head finally breached the surface. If the eyes hadn't been blinking, Jon might have mistaken Tyrion for an oversized marmot surfacing from its burrow.
The armor that followed was a marvel; despite the decades of damp earth, the steel remained preternaturally bright. Emblazoned upon the breastplates was the sigil of the Raven's Teeth—the fire-breathing white dragon. The dragon's eyes, set with polished red garnets, shimmered like burning coals in the pale snow-light.
"These were the personal guard of Brynden Rivers," Tyrion muttered, scrubbing his face with a rag. "I recognized the heraldry from the Shield Hall at Castle Black. It's a bit macabre, finding them like this."
"Aren't you going to help?" Jon asked, straining against the weight of the treasure chests.
"I've done the subterranean work, Aegon. The heavy lifting is for the 'Avatar of the Warrior.' Besides, look at my stature—I'm a thinker, not a mule." Tyrion kicked up his legs, leaning back against the white bark of the tree. He produced a leather waterskin from his tunic and took a long, satisfied draught of ale. "Ah... that's better. Perhaps the exhaustion makes it taste like a vintage from the Arbor."
Jon shook his head and finished the work himself. In the surrounding forest, the Night's Watch escorts maintained their triangular patrol, their discipline keeping them focused on the treeline rather than the strange archaeological dig happening at the Heart Tree.
Finally, all the items were pulled from the darkness. Because of the dim light within the roots, Tyrion hadn't noticed the details of the weapons until they were laid out on the snow.
"Wait... by the Seven! Look at this!"
Jon was hauling the final, heaviest chest when Tyrion's voice cracked with a rare, breathless excitement.
The chest was fashioned from pale, unyielding wood—likely weirwood—which had preserved its contents against rot and rust. Jon dropped it with a heavy thud, his breath coming in clouds. He had expected the gold, but he hadn't expected Tyrion to be brandishing a slender, shimmering blade.
It was a longsword, though its proportions were uniquely graceful—roughly a third the width of a standard greatsword. The metal was dark, rippled with the tell-tale watermarks of Valyrian steel. In the snow-light, the ruby set into the pommel glowed with a sinister, pulsing brilliance, as if it were a drop of dragon's blood frozen in time.
Dark Sister.
The ancestral blade of Queen Visenya Targaryen. Legend said she had used it to save Aegon the Conqueror from Dornish assassins. While less famous than its brother-blade, Blackfyre, it was a symbol of the dynasty's lethal elegance. No one knew why the Bloodraven had taken it with him to the Wall, but now, after years of silence, it was back in the hand of a Targaryen soul.
"Why are you staring like that?" Tyrion asked, noticing Jon's intense, distant expression. He recalled the name Jon had given him earlier. "Hold on... who are you? Don't tell me you're the son of Rhaegar and Elia. That Aegon was dashed against a wall by the Mountain."
"The House of the Dragon has known many by the name Aegon," Jon replied cryptically, his eyes turning to the chests.
Click... Bam!
He forced open the first chest. A warm, golden radiance spilled out, reflecting off the snow.
Tyrion practically scrambled over. "By the Gods... there must be three thousand gold dragons in here! And the jewelry... if the other two are like this, you could build a second Castle Black and still have enough to buy the Iron Throne."
Excitement took hold of the dwarf. He moved to the second chest, then the third, his eyes wide with greed and wonder. But the final chest did not glint with gold. It contained only heavy parchment scrolls, ancient books, and a single, strangely shaped stone.
"What's this? A paper-weight?"
Tyrion reached in and lifted the object. It was roughly the size of an ostrich egg, covered in a series of intricate, overlapping scales. In the shadow of the forest, it looked like a piece of dark, fossilized coal.
But as he turned it in his hands, the light caught it.
Deep within the black, streaks of crimson and gold shimmered like cooling lava. It felt unnaturally heavy, yet strangely warm to the touch, like a heart that hadn't quite stopped beating. Tyrion's face went pale as he realized what he was holding. It wasn't an art piece; it was a relic of the Old Valyria.
"A Dragon Egg..." Tyrion whispered, his voice failing him. "Aegon... you've found a Dragon Egg."