Within the cavernous hollows of the ancient weirwood tree, Brynden Rivers—Bloodraven—opened his one remaining eye. White roots coiled around his body like veins through flesh, holding him in place beneath the earth. He did not blink. He could not. But his eye twitched.

  Something had vanished.

  A soul—long bound, long watched—had disappeared from the weirwood network.

  The flame was out.

  Rage boiled beneath his still skin. That boy again.

  No… not a boy. Not truly.

  Jon Snow.

  A name he once whispered with hope. A name now curdled with dread.

  He had watched Jon’s life from the moment he drew breath beneath the Tower of Joy. Seen the hand of prophecy coiling around his birth like smoke. The child of fire and blood, born beneath a bleeding star.

  Once, Bloodraven wondered if Jon was the prince that was promised.

  But no prince of light would destroy a weirwood tree.

  No prince of man would slay a Child of the Forest.

  No prince would sever a soul from the root.

  Perhaps he had been wrong all along. Perhaps Jon Snow was no child of prophecy—but a champion of the Great Other. A demon clothed in the skin of a boy, carved from ice and hatred. A spawn of the cold gods, sent to unravel everything Bloodraven had safeguarded for a hundred lifetimes.

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  Stabbed in the heart… and lived.

  Burned by dragonfire… and rose.

  These were not the acts of the promised hero.

  Bloodraven reached deeper into the roots, gazing through the past as easily as others looked through windows. He watched Jon grow, quiet and withdrawn among the Stark children. No close bonds. No affection shared. He was a shadow in their home. Another sign, Bloodraven thought, that he was not truly of them.

  Even now, there were no hostages. No strings to pull. No kin he could use as leverage.

  And he himself could not strike. His body was long since claimed by the roots, his flesh eaten away until he was more tree than man. Coldhands—his final blade—was gone too, disintegrated by Jon’s cursed technique. And the corpse he had used as a vessel?

  Daemon Blackfyre.

  A fitting puppet. A bitter irony. And now ash.

  Bloodraven turned his gaze to the Children of the Forest surrounding him, huddled and whispering like mice in the dark. Their eyes—once gleaming with trust—now watched him with dread.

  Fearful of Jon. And of me.

  He ignored them. They were no longer useful.

  Containers of green magic, that was all they were. And magic alone would not win the war to come. Not against him.

  No, it was time to turn to older methods. Cruder ones.

  Politics.

  War.

  The Game of Thrones.

  Bloodraven shifted his attention toward the Wall. Toward the shattered Night’s Watch—fractured, faithless, and dying. They were weak. But weakness could be reforged.

  With wildlings.

  Even barbarians could serve a purpose.

  If the Watch could unite with the free folk, if their hatred could be twisted into resolve, they might become a blade sharp enough to cut Jon Snow down.

  Not with cursed energy.

  Not with prophecy.

  But with steel and numbers. With war.

  Bloodraven closed his eye, letting the visions fade. The roots whispered of cracks in the Wall, of old spells faltering. Time was running short.

  Jon Snow had to die.