Snow fell lightly, but there was no storm. Only the quiet stillness of a North holding its breath.

  Ned Stark arrived at the shattered gates of Castle Black, flanked by Benjen and a dozen loyal bannermen. The sight of the broken Wall stole the air from his lungs. It had stood for over eight thousand years—and now it was gone, crumbled like a ruin from some forgotten age. He felt older in its absence. Smaller.

  Yet the dream from the night before stayed in his heart, warm and strange. A vision of peace—of Jon, radiant like the dawn, speaking with the voice of kings and gods. Ned didn’t believe in prophecy. But he trusted his instincts.

  He rode through the gates with grim resolve.

  The Wildlings were already inside. Their blades were sheathed, and their posture was calm. Yet their eyes were sharp, focused—not like raiders, but soldiers guarding something sacred. Ned’s men bristled, but Benjen raised a hand to keep them from drawing swords.

  Ned’s gaze swept across the courtyard. Children of the Forest carved strange symbols into the stone with hands of bark and bone. Ravens circled overhead. And Castle Black, once cold and crumbling, had been transformed—part fortress, part living grove.

  He stepped inside the great hall.

  At the head of the blackstone table stood Jon Snow—or what remained of him. Hair white as snow, eyes bright as amethysts, and a presence that shimmered like heat in the cold. Ned’s heart clenched. Gods, he thought, he looks just like Rhaegar. He’d have to tell the boy to hide it somehow, dye his hair, cover his eyes. If Robert saw him like this…

  And then Ned saw who stood beside him.

  On Gojo’s left, a Child of the Forest, beautiful and ethereal, her stomach rounded with pregnancy. On his right, a male Child clung to his arm with a protective fondness. The myths had returned. They were alive. And Jon—no, Gojo—was their center.

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  Ned blinked. It was too much.

  And yet… he smiled. Lyanna would have been proud. A grandchild. A legacy. A new world, perhaps.

  Mance Rayder, standing across the table, looked similarly stunned at Snowylocks’ presence, though he masked it with a grunt and folded arms.

  Gojo raised his voice, clear and composed. “Sit. We have much to speak about.”

  Ned and Mance exchanged glances, then took their seats.

  “I want to begin,” Gojo said, “by apologizing for the deaths of your people, Mance. I killed five thousand of your Wildlings—but only to protect the Wall, and the Children. I believe… you were manipulated. Fed false visions in your dreams.”

  Mance’s jaw clenched. “Bloodraven.”

  Gojo nodded. “Yes. He tried to use me too.”

  Ned furrowed his brow. “Bloodraven? You mean Brynden Rivers? The old tale?”

  Mance spat. “Tale nothing. That shadow’s been whispering lies to every man with green dreams since before my father’s time.”

  Ned didn’t respond, but something in him stirred. The dream he’d had… it felt planted. Designed.

  Gojo pressed on. “The Wall no longer stands, but a new border can be made. Let it mark peace, not fear. The North shall be yours, Lord Stark. The Lands of the Free Folk shall remain with their people.”

  Ned hesitated. “Robert Baratheon will never acknowledge a king beyond the Wall. Nor will the Iron Throne.”

  “They don’t need to,” Gojo said. “They never ruled it. And they never will. The weather alone will break their armies. Let them call it wilderness. Let it be forgotten. But not feared.”

  Ned slowly nodded. “I can tell Robert… that it's a land beyond our concern. No kingship. No war. Just a cease of hostilities.”

  Gojo turned to Mance. “And your people will leave the southern villages in peace. No more raids. No more revenge.”

  Mance tapped his fingers, then nodded. “Aye. We’re tired of running.”

  Benjen Stark finally spoke. “And the Night’s Watch?”

  Gojo looked at him. “They’re free to live here. But they will no longer patrol the other side. Nor will your side be breached by mine. No more forced exile. Let Castle Black be a gate of trade, not of chains.”

  “And the Children?” Ned finally asked. “They’re... real.”

  “They are,” Gojo said. “And they reside mostly in the Lands of Always Winter for now. They want peace. Visitors from the North and the Free Folk may come, as long as they respect that peace.”

  Ned rubbed his chin. “And you? Are you their king?”

  Gojo smiled softly. “No. I’m their protector. Their blade, if needed. Nothing more.”

  Snowylocks laid a hand on Gojo’s arm. Ash nodded, eyes calm.

  Ned stood. “Then let’s write this pact, and carve it into stone and page.”

  Gojo extended his hand across the table.

  Mance clasped it first. Then Ned.

  Three hands. One future.

  The Pact of Ice and Root was born.