Darkness enshrouded the Far North, accompanied by bone-chilling winds. The Aurora Borealis, a ribbon of emerald light, spread across the horizon like the eye of the Night King—shimmering and ethereal, like a tapestry hung against a pitch-black sky. Jasmine and Tormund reined in their horses, gazing at the sight not far ahead. A colossal, fist-shaped fortress rose from the snow, as if to punch straight into the heavens. The Fist of the First Men, the first stronghold of mankind from generations past.

  "We should rest here," Jasmine said, gesturing toward the Fist of the First Men.

  "Thank the gods!" Tormund exclaimed, cracking his neck with a sharp pop before looking down at Dany, who was curled up in his arms. She looked like a child in the midst of a deep, peaceful slumber. Under the mystical glow of the Aurora, Dany’s hair was dyed a faint green, and her skin, white as snow and smooth as an egg, made Tormund’s hunger flare up.

  "We'll spend the night there; I'll go find something to put in our bellies," Tormund said, nodding to himself. He began to imagine plump rabbits, roasted over glowing coals—skin crispy and rich with fat.

  With that, the two urged their horses toward the Fist of the First Men.

  The area was desolate and lonely, with no sign of a living soul. Jasmine and Tormund tethered their horses outside and carried Dany inside.

  Tormund gathered some firewood to build a makeshift hearth. He rummaged through the enormous bag he carried, his face darkening with irritation. "Damn it, I forgot the fire-starter at White City. Without it, we're screwed."

  "Move aside," Jasmine said softly. She approached, gently pushing Tormund out of the way. She held her hands over the wood, focused, and began to chant under her breath.

  The fire roared to life, illuminating the interior of the Fist of the First Men. The ruins were desolate, with scattered human skeletons across the floor, along with swords, cloaks, and badges—badges of the Night’s Watch.

  Tormund wandered around, collecting cloaks rendered into rags by time. He braided them into a makeshift bed and laid Dany upon it. "Rest here for a while to keep warm," he muttered.

  "Stay here and look after her. I’m going to find something to eat," Tormund said, turning to walk out. Suddenly, he froze, staring.

  Before him stood the direwolf, a plump rabbit dangling from its jaws. It was the largest rabbit Tormund had ever seen, the size of a suckling pig.

  "I forgot you were a wolf," Tormund chuckled, snatched the rabbit from the direwolf’s mouth, and headed back inside. Ghost licked his chops clean of blood and followed, tail wagging.

  The crackling of dry wood mixed with the mouth-watering aroma of roasted rabbit made Ghost restless. It lay beside Dany, whimpering occasionally, licking its lips and wagging its tail as if asking Tormund if the meat was ready yet.

  Tormund turned the rabbit over the fire, saliva soaking his auburn beard, his eyes fixed greedily on the sizzling fat, occasionally shooing the direwolf away when it whined for food.

  Jasmine sat leaning against the wall, right beside Dany, her eyes closed, hands clasped, murmuring things Tormund could not understand. Perhaps she was praying. The hexagonal ruby on her necklace pulsed with a strange light from time to time, as if responding to her prayers.

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  "Where am I? Drogon..." Tormund and Jasmine startled as Dany’s voice drifted through the room. They, along with the direwolf, turned toward her.

  Dany slowly sat up, rubbing her temples; she still seemed dazed by Lyana’s magic.

  "My Queen," Tormund hurried to her side, holding the golden-brown rabbit skewered on a branch. He had to keep a firm grip on it, lest the direwolf snatch it the moment he let his guard down.

  Dany looked around in a panic, searching for something. Darkness reigned, with only a sluggish fire burning before her. It was not White City.

  "We are at the Fist of the First Men. You have been away from White City for several days," Tormund informed her. He broke off a rabbit leg and offered it to her, his voice softening. "Please, Your Grace, enjoy this meal I’ve prepared."

  Dany looked at the rabbit leg, but she had no heart for food. She stood up, intending to walk to the exit, but Jasmine blocked her path. "Do you intend to return to White City and surrender yourself to the Northern army and the Old Gods?"

  "I must go back to Drogon! He needs me!" Dany shouted.

  "Both Drogon and Lyana sacrificed themselves so you could be safe. Do you wish to betray that effort? If so, be my guest—return to White City," Jasmine stepped aside, opening a path for Dany.

  Dany took a few steps toward the doorway and looked up at the sky, her fists clenched tightly, a bitter feeling surging within her. A suppressed sob made her body tremble; the sound caught in her throat.

  Tears streamed down her face, hitting the stone floor and freezing into ice. She had nothing left—lost, alone in the frozen North. Family, friends, dragons, the cheers, the oaths of loyalty, the "long may she reign" chants, the supportive arms—all were gone. Dany now felt like a weak rabbit, trying to escape a pack of savage wolves.

  "You must go to Asshai. Asshai is the only place where you can find the answer to your destiny," Jasmine said firmly from behind her.

  After a long moment of thought, Dany drew a deep, icy breath, stifling her tears and sobs. She exhaled slowly, her violet eyes—tinged with a faint blue—gazing into the distance. A smoldering fire burned within them. "If Asshai can help me, I will go to Asshai. I once had it all—I was heralded, thousands knelt before me. Many wanted me dead, and I did die. But today, I return, and I will begin with one thing: the fire within me."

  Jasmine smiled and nodded, while Tormund knelt behind them, clutching the roasted rabbit, and shouted, "Long live the Queen!"

  Suddenly, the direwolf bolted upright, growling toward the door, staring into the dim, blue-tinted night.

  In the distance, black dots, like death itself, were slowly approaching.

  "The Night’s Watch," Tormund whispered, throwing the roasted rabbit to the ground and grabbing his axe, bracing for battle.

  Dany’s heart hammered. Surrounded in the desolate North by the Night’s Watch, would her fate end here?

  The encirclement tightened. They knew there was no escaping the dozens of riders. Tormund pulled Dany inside, looked at her, and said, "Ghost and I will block them. You and Jasmine must take advantage of the chaos and run. Before you go, take my bag; there are a few things in there that belong to you."

  Tormund swung his axe and stood firmly at the entrance. The direwolf, eyes filled with hatred, stood beside him, growling.

  Whoosh. A lone horseman raced past the Fist of the First Men, charging toward the Night’s Watch—one rider, one horse. The sword in the rider’s hand shimmered with the cold hue of death. The rider’s long, black hair, waving like ocean swells, billowed in the snowy wind.

  The rider glanced back at the Fist of the First Men and shouted, "Get out of here! I’ll hold them off!"

  Dany felt as if she had turned to stone when she looked at the rider. Her ears rang at the sound of that voice. She muttered to herself, a sensation impossible to describe overwhelming her entire body.

  The rider looked toward Dany and stopped short, pulling his reins so hard his charging horse reared, slowing down with a frustrated snort. His sword nearly fell to the ground; the rider trembled, seemingly unable to believe what he was seeing.

  "Jon!" Dany screamed, filled with anguish.

  "Dany!" Jon Snow whispered the name he had never forgotten for hundreds of years. In the freezing North, Jon Snow stood as still as a statue.

  The Aurora Borealis fluttered like a banner, and the wind howled a mournful tune. In the distance, the Night’s Watch approached, cold and ghostly.