Jon Snow—no, Jon Targaryen—was too curious, too independent, and above all else, too disappointing. Brynden Rivers brooded beneath the roots of the great weirwood tree in the far north, his bones old but his mind sharpened by centuries of visions. This Jon was not the savior he'd hoped for.
Out of the countless paths and possibilities Brynden had seen through the eyes of the weirwood network, this version of Jon Snow had veered furthest from the one they had nurtured in prophecy. He had not become the Prince That Was Promised. Instead, he had betrayed everything—killing a Child of the Forest and attempting to burn down a weirwood tree.
"No true prince would harm the godswood," the Children had whispered with ancient sorrow. "No prince who spills the blood of the first children can carry the song of ice and fire."
Brynden felt shame—and anger. He had dedicated decades, no, centuries of careful manipulation and ancestral engineering to Jon's birth. Rhaegar's dreams. Lyanna's sacrifice. All a waste.
But perhaps not completely.
"If not a prince," Brynden murmured, staring into the bark of the tree, "then at least, he can be firewood."
He sank into the vision again, pulling through the tangle of red roots and cursed whispers of time, seeking out alternate threads. He saw Robb Stark, noble and burdened. He saw Daenerys Targaryen, alone and burning with divine madness. Could they be united? Could a new song be sung? One of fire and frost, hope and rage?
Perhaps.
But first, Jon Snow had to die.
With grim resolve, Brynden's will coiled around the ancient power embedded in the weirwoods. His body shuddered, transforming. Bone shifted, skin cracked, and old sinew bound anew with cursed vitality. He warged into the corpse he'd long puppeteered—Coldhands.
Clad in black and crowned by raven's wings, Coldhands took shape. Brynden tightened his grip on the cursed blade Dark Sister, now warped and singing with energy harvested from the roots of dead gods.
He would not ride alone.
From the snow emerged his small warband—Children of the Forest twisted by their long war into vengeful spirits, and above them soared the great beast Sheepstealer, the dragon bonded long ago by Nettle. Which gojo had killed in winterfell.
The hunt was set. The traitor prince would be the first ember. From his ashes, a new prophecy would rise.
Brynden Rivers took to the storm with sword and fury.
The song of ice and fire would be rewritten—without Jon Snow. A blizzard awaits.
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