The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the distant howl of wolves. Jon stood at the edge of the camp, the dragon egg secured in a bundle of furs on his back. The weight was unfamiliar, yet it felt right—like it belonged with him.
Tormund approached, his usual smirk absent. "Are you sure about this?"
Jon nodded. "I have to know what this means."
The Free Folk had accepted him, given him a place among them. But something deep inside told him he was meant for more than exile. The egg had been hidden in the far North for a reason, and if dragons had once soared over Westeros, they could again.
Tormund grunted. "You always were a stubborn one. So, how do you plan on getting to Essos? Gonna swim?"
Jon exhaled. "I'll head south first, find a ship."
Tormund raised an eyebrow. "South, huh? You mean to Westeros?"
Jon hesitated. Westeros. The land that had cast him out. His family was there—Sansa, Arya, Bran. The thought of seeing them again was tempting, but he had no place in their world.
"I won't stay long," Jon said. "I just need a way across the Narrow Sea."
Tormund studied him, then sighed. "Well, you're a fool, but you're our fool. I'll get you as far as the Bay of Seals."
Jon nodded in thanks.
The journey south was long and treacherous. The Free Folk who had followed him this far began to turn back, settling in hidden valleys and old ruins, reclaiming the lands they had once lost. By the time they reached the frozen coastline of the Bay of Seals, only a handful remained.
The sea stretched out before them, gray and endless. The waves crashed against the ice, and in the distance, the faint silhouette of a ship rocked in the water.
Tormund gestured toward it. "Traders from Eastwatch. They don't ask many questions, if you have something to trade."
Jon glanced at the egg strapped to his back. "I'll find a way."
Tormund clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Try not to die, Snow."
Jon smirked. "You too."
With that, he stepped toward the shore, toward his next journey.
As he approached the ship, the wind carried a whisper through the air—a language he barely recognized but felt deep in his blood.
Valyrio Māzis.
The Dragon Comes.