Jon looked toward Dany. Though his body was wrapped in layers of warm furs, he felt a chill that pierced through his bones. Dany’s gaze was like blades of frozen ice, cutting through his very soul. In that moment, Jon could only mutter a name he had never forgotten in nearly 300 years.

  Jon did not understand why he did not age or die, but he vaguely sensed that after being resurrected by Melisandre, he still carried a profound responsibility. By now, Jon realized his mission wasn't to fight the Night King, nor was it to kill Dany—if it were, he would have turned to dust long ago instead of lingering like a shadow in the frozen North.

  But above all, in this moment, he felt as if he were trapped in a dream. His fateful dagger before the Iron Throne years ago had killed Dany. So who was this person standing there? Jon trembled; Longclaw nearly slipped from his hand to the snow. A ghost? He wasn't sure.

  "Jon!" Dany screamed again. Her voice pierced through the snow-laden winds, tearing through the night and the illusions of the past, dragging Jon back to the present.

  "Dany! It really is Dany," Jon murmured before turning to see the Night’s Watch—over twenty men spurring their horses forward. They were all clad in ink-black, highlighting their sharp, polished longswords gleaming under the night sky.

  Jon could vaguely guess why the Night’s Watch was hunting her. He couldn't remember exactly when he had left the Watch, crossed the Wall, and begun his long, lonely wanderings—fighting against the Night's Watch for all those years. He only remembered it was the moment he realized Bran was not the brother he had imagined. Everything that had happened to him and the people of Westeros bore the shadow of Brandon Stark, the boy he had once loved.

  "Run!" Jon bellowed, spurring his horse toward the Night’s Watchmen. Longclaw swung in a silver blur, and the black cloak on his back fluttered like a banner against the white snow.

  Watching Jon charge to confront the soldiers, Dany felt a wave of confusion. If Jon recognized her, he should have turned back to capture or kill her. He was a man of the Night’s Watch, after all. Dany stood frozen, her mind a blank.

  "Jasmine, take the girl and get out of here. Ghost and I will hold them off with that fellow Jon!" Tormund grabbed his dragonglass axe, leaped to the ground, and ran toward Jon. The direwolf standing at the entrance threw back its head and let out a savage howl before vanishing into the night like a phantom, leaving only blurred streaks in the air.

  "Go! We must reach Hardhome as fast as possible. Your life is in danger every second we stay," Jasmine urged, grabbing Dany’s hand and pulling her away.

  As they hurried down the steps, Dany suddenly remembered Tormund’s instructions. She halted, released Jasmine’s hand, and ran back inside, shouting over her shoulder, "Get the horses! I have to get Tormund’s bag!"

  Jasmine didn't want to argue. She ran to the bottom, untied two horses, mounted one, and waited. Moments later, Dany appeared from the stairwell, a massive leather bag slung over her shoulder. She leaped onto her horse, secured the bag, and gave Jasmine a look that said, Let’s go.

  Jasmine didn't waste a heartbeat. She placed her hands on the heads of the two horses and whispered an incantation in High Valyrian. The horses' eyes suddenly flared a fiery red. They let out wild neighs and bolted with a speed that the finest thoroughbreds could never match.

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  Dany looked back. The silhouette of Jon charging the Night’s Watch grew smaller and smaller. She whispered to herself, "Jon! You're not dead... you're truly not dead."

  The two women sped like the wind through the Haunted Forest, heading east. If they reached Hardhome, Dany would be safe.

  "Don't let the white-haired girl escape!" a Night’s Watchman roared, pointing his sword toward the Haunted Forest where Dany and Jasmine had disappeared. He spurred his horse forward, but suddenly Jon appeared before him like a specter, bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc.

  Clang! The soldier parried, but the force was so immense he was thrown from his saddle, hitting the ground and bouncing like a ragdoll. With his momentum, Jon swung again. Longclaw carved a silver line through the air, catching the soldier as he tried to scramble up and splitting him in two. Blood and brains sprayed across the snow.

  "Kill him!" another soldier yelled. The Watchmen reigned in their horses, turning back toward Jon.

  "Kill him first, then hunt the girls," one said.

  "There's a wildling on foot and a dog coming at us too," another added, pointing toward the Fist of the First Men where Tormund and Ghost were charging in to support Jon. Tormund was screaming the foulest curses imaginable, while the direwolf lunged ahead of him.

  "That's no dog, it's a direwolf, you fool!" the first soldier snapped.

  "Split up! Finish them quickly or we're all dead men!" the commander urged.

  The Night’s Watch split into two groups—one surrounding Jon, the other dealing with Tormund and the wolf.

  "Die, you bastard!" the men surrounding Jon screamed as they lunged. Jon calmly maneuvered his horse, Longclaw flashing again. The screech of steel on steel shattered the silence of the night. Jon dodged a blade and thrust his sword through a man’s chest, making him shriek like a stuck pig before tumbling to the ground.

  The others circled back, raining blows down upon him. Jon maneuvered his horse with expert precision, evading the storm of blades and leaving his attackers fuming in frustration.

  On the other side, Tormund swung his axe with such force that he sent the lead horse and its rider flying. The horse slammed into a boulder, its bones shattering. The soldier pinned beneath it wailed in agony.

  Tormund ducked a downward slash and threw his entire weight into a second horse, knocking it flat. The rider was thrown clear, losing his sword in the snow. As the man scrambled for his weapon, he froze in terror. A direwolf the size of a bull, with eyes as red as blood, was baring its teeth in his face. The man pursed his lips to whistle, perhaps hoping to soothe the beast, but Ghost lunged. His massive jaws snapped shut across the man's face. Before the whistle could even sound, half the man's face—lips and nose included—was gone.

  The Night’s Watchmen began to cluster together, realizing they couldn't separate Jon, Tormund, and Ghost. They formed a tight formation, forcing the trio to close ranks. Jon looked at the wildling who was strong as an ox and gasped, "Tormund!"

  "Tormund the Fourth!" Tormund corrected quickly.

  "Ghost! It’s you!" Jon looked in amazement at the white wolf, now stained crimson with blood.

  "Ghost the Tenth," Tormund added wearily.

  The Night’s Watch, now employing proper tactics, grew confident. They advanced slowly, their flanks closing in like a pincer. Jon, Tormund, and Ghost retreated toward the Fist of the First Men, exhausted after the heavy fighting.

  The captain sneered as he watched the trio back away. He brandished his sword. "Not even the gods can save you today."

  As the words left his mouth, a savage, primal howling erupted from all sides. The remaining Watchmen looked around in horror. A pack of dozens of direwolves emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing like lanterns, their white teeth bared to tear flesh from bone.

  Ghost threw his head back and let out a long, piercing howl. The pack answered in unison and swept toward the Night’s Watch like white ghosts. The screams of dying horses and the shrieks of men filled the dark—a horrific end for the brothers of the Watch.

  Jon and Tormund stood in silence, witnessing the feast of the wolves. A hollow feeling settled in Jon's chest. Unconsciously, he turned his gaze back toward the Haunted Forest and whispered a single name:

  "Dany."