The dawn slowly unveiled itself behind the snowy mountain ranges to the east. A cold breeze blew gently, swirling snow dust into the air before settling it back onto the frozen ground. The "Haunted Forest" flickered in and out of view through the misty snow, appearing more ominous by the second.

  Jon leaned wearily against a wall within the fortress of the "Fist of the First Men," his breath heavy. He gazed toward the forest where Dany had departed the previous night. Now, Jon knew for certain it was her. She had returned from the dead, just as he had.

  “Eat something,” Tormund offered, holding out a piece of rabbit meat toward Jon.

  Jon smiled and reached out to take it. The direwolf had its share too; huddled in a corner, it calmly gnawed on the rabbit it had caught during the night.

  Tormund tore off a large chunk of meat and shoved it into his mouth, chewing noisily. His ginger beard was slick and shiny with grease. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before tearing into another piece. The battle from the night before had left him nearly exhausted.

  Once he felt somewhat replenished, Tormund let out a loud belch, patted his stomach, and looked at Jon. “So, it turns out you’re the legendary Jon Snow.”

  “What does the legend say?” Jon asked softly, turning toward him.

  “When I was a lad, my great-grandfather told me about you. You and my ancestor, Tormund, were brothers-in-arms. They say you’re immortal, the one who... killed the Queen, and what else? Ah, the traitor to the Night’s Watch.” Tormund scratched his head, trying to recall the stories of Jon Snow from his memory.

  Jon gave a forced smile, struggling to swallow the rabbit meat. Having finished its own portion, the direwolf began pacing around Jon, staring intently at the meat remaining in his hand. Jon smiled and held the morsel out. The wolf extended its massive nose, sniffed the savory meat, and took it gently into its jaws. Jon stroked the animal’s snow-white fur while it focused on its meal, indifferent to his touch.

  “Turns out you’re a descendant of Ghost—the resemblance is striking,” Jon remarked in awe. “And you as well; you look exactly like the first Tormund,” he added, looking at Tormund IV.

  Tormund laughed loudly, unsure of what to say. The man sitting and eating with him now was his ancestor’s best friend. Tormund wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to address him.

  “The Red Priestess brought Dany back, didn’t she? But why, after all these years, is she still...” Jon hesitated.

  “You mean not rotted and decayed like a common corpse?” Tormund interjected.

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  Jon nodded.

  “I don’t understand how she kept her youth and beauty after all this time either. Perhaps it’s that bed made of ice in the White Castle. She’s been lying there for nearly 300 years,” Tormund explained.

  “Where is this White Castle you speak of?” Jon asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

  “About three or four days' journey to the west. It’s cut off from the world by fierce blizzards. My ancestors have guarded the White Castle for hundreds of years,” Tormund said.

  Jon nodded slowly. “That’s why I searched for your ancestor for so long and never found him.” He continued, “You’re truly like Tormund—your strength is extraordinary.”

  “I’m even stronger than the first Tormund!” Tormund IV roared with laughter, thumping his chest. The direwolf barked as if in agreement.

  “Let me tell you, the grandson of the first Tormund—that would be... let me see... my great-great-grandfather. He...” Tormund stammered, glancing around to see if anyone was eavesdropping.

  Both Jon and the direwolf perked up their ears, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “He what?” Jon urged as Tormund kept looking left and right.

  “His wife... was... a giant,” Tormund whispered, barely loud enough for Jon to hear.

  Jon stared at Tormund IV in disbelief. “Is such a thing even possible?”

  “Why wouldn't it be? I heard my great-great-grandmother was a giant, but she had some kind of sickness that made her only half the size of other giants. Like that Lannister imp I’ve heard stories about,” Tormund noted. “But she was still twice the size of my great-great-grandfather. Gods rest their souls,” Tormund muttered, clasping his hands.

  Jon nodded, and the direwolf let out a low whine in response.

  “That’s why my ancestor got to drink... giant’s milk. Because his mother was a giant. Those giant genes passed down all the way to me; that’s why I’m this strong,” Tormund IV laughed heartily.

  “Why does the Giantsbane line guard Dany at the White Castle?” Jon asked.

  “I’m not sure. I only know it’s my duty. House Giantsbane always keeps its word,” Tormund answered solemnly. “Now, let’s talk about your story. I could’ve used this dragonglass axe to split your skull and feed your brains to the wolf,” Tormund said, swinging the axe with a mischievous, crooked grin.

  Jon understood. He could be killed by Tormund right now because the wildling was Dany’s subordinate. Or, for that matter, he could be bitten to death by the wolf. It, too, was a subordinate of Dany’s subordinate.

  Jon scratched his head, let out a long sigh, and began his tale. “It was the most horrific time of my life. I had to live with the torment day after day, night after night. I couldn't bear it, so I began looking for reasons to justify what I did. For the people? For the realm? No, my friend. Those are reasons that sound noble, but in truth, they mean nothing.”

  Exhaling sharply, Jon continued as Tormund listened intently. “I realized that my brother, Bran, wasn't actually as good as I thought. And the imp, Tyrion... it was he who revealed that once Dany took the throne, she would execute Sansa, Bran, and all the Northern houses for treason. To me, family was everything.”

  “What did Bran have to do with it?” Tormund asked, puzzled.

  “Bran told Tyrion all of it. Bran claimed he used his power to see into the past—to hear Dany speaking with Grey Worm—and said the Starks and their bannermen were in danger, begging me to do something. Tyrion put the knife in my hand and forced me to choose. Do you understand, my friend?” Jon said bitterly.

  “Is that why you left the Night’s Watch? Who told you all this?” Tormund asked skeptically.

  “Tyrion himself said those words before he died,” Jon sighed, looking out toward the Haunted Forest.

  “But how do you know Tyrion was telling the truth?” Tormund pressed.

  Jon smiled, slowly stroking the hilt of Longclaw. “Because I am not a descendant of House Targaryen, my friend. I truly am a bastard of House Stark.”