"Jon!"
Euron's severed head rolled across the deck and suddenly spoke.
Jon nearly jumped out of his skin.
The bastard still wasn't dead. He drew his sword, ready to hack the head into pieces and feed it to the fish—or burn what was left to ash.
Then he noticed something was wrong. Sandor and the soldiers behind him hadn't reacted at all. They stood frozen, like they hadn't heard a thing.
Jon glanced around and felt his breath catch. The waves had stopped mid-crash. Water hung in the air like shattered glass catching golden light. Time itself had frozen.
"Jon, I'm not Euron."
The head spoke again. Jon stepped closer, sword raised, and saw that Euron's eyes had turned a deep, glowing green. The malice was gone. In its place was something ancient and sorrowful.
"You're… the Green Seer?" Jon asked carefully.
The head gave a small, surprised sound. "You're sharper than I expected."
Jon lowered his sword. "Why are you here?"
"Our time is short," the Green Seer said. "I'll tell you what matters most."
He explained that Euron had never been his own man. He was the Night King's pawn. The power Euron wielded came straight from the cold beyond the Wall.
Jon's stomach tightened. He had thought the Night King was just some mindless corpse-raiser. Apparently the bastard could play the long game.
"The Night King wants chaos," the Green Seer continued. "He pushes men like Euron to start wars, spill blood, and weaken the living before the Long Night comes. That's all Euron ever was—just a tool to bleed Westeros dry."
Jon asked the questions burning in his chest. Was the Azor Ahai story real? Did Lightbringer exist? Was he the promised prince? Would killing the Night King end the Long Night?
The Green Seer's answers were maddeningly vague. It depended on his choices. Lightbringer was real, but it wasn't a sword. And the Night King?
"The Night King cannot be killed."
Jon went still. "Then how the hell do we win?"
"You don't kill him," the Green Seer said. "You survive him. And I will help you."
He explained that the blood of the children of the forest and the First Men still ran through many people—including Jon. The Night King stood against all life. The Green Seer would not stand with him.
"Then how will you help me?" Jon asked.
"You'll know when you return."
Jon didn't push. Old powers liked their secrets.
"Is Bran your pawn?"
"No," the Green Seer said. "He is my chosen successor. If you defeat the Night King, I may have enough strength left to heal his legs."
Jon straightened. "Tell me what I need to know."
The Green Seer's voice grew urgent. "Jon, your father was Rhaegar Targaryen. Eddard Stark was your uncle. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. That is the truth."
Jon let the shock show on his face. He had worried the Green Seer knew everything. Apparently not.
Time was running out. The Green Seer promised to buy him what he could.
Then the green eyes flickered and turned ice-blue.
The sorrow vanished. Cold contempt took its place.
"Jon."
The voice scraped like steel on ice.
The Night King had taken the line.
"Serve me," the Night King said. "Be my voice in the south. I will give you dragons. I will give you eternal life. Your dynasty will last a thousand years."
Jon didn't flinch. "And the price?"
"Simple. Send me your bloodline. Let them serve me in the Lands of Always Winter. The ice will creep south only a little each year."
Jon almost laughed. The bastard wanted him as a glorified attack dog.
"Agree now," the Night King pressed, "and I will give you the power to hatch dragons. I will pull the ice back to the Wall."
Jon looked at the frozen world around him. Sandor and the men still hadn't moved.
He thought about pretending to agree just to buy time.
His gut told him it wouldn't work. The Night King would know.
He raised his sword.
"Finished talking?"
The Night King snarled. "Fool."
Jon brought the blade down hard. Euron's head split in two.
The world snapped back into motion. Waves crashed. Men shouted. Time flowed again.
Jon stood over the ruined head and let out a slow breath.
The Green Seer would help, but not much—not while he was busy holding the Night King back. That "you'll know when you return" line probably wasn't about dragon eggs hatching.
The Night King, though… the bastard was good at temptation. Jon would have to watch for that.
At least Euron was finally gone. The Drowned God had been nothing but the Night King's mask. Euron had just been another puppet.
The Iron Islands were no longer a threat to the Sunset Sea. Jon could finally move forward with the plan he and Robb had discussed—shift the ironborn to the Westerlands and bring the wildlings down to the islands. The North would be safer. Triangular trade could finally begin.
And he had taken most of their fleet intact.
It was a hell of a win.
Sandor walked up beside him, looking strangely cheerful for once.
"What's got you smiling?" Jon asked.
"War's finally over, my lord. We can actually rest for a bit."
Jon didn't correct him. Stannis would summon him to King's Landing soon enough. Varys and Illyrio's little dragon prince would come stirring trouble too. The fighting wasn't done. It was just changing shape.
Sandor glanced at him. "Lady Margaery should be due any day now, shouldn't she?"
Jon nodded. "Close enough."
He had been gone nearly four months. Once they finished cleaning up here, he could finally go home and stay there for a while.
When they reached Pyke, the Goodbrothers surrendered without a fight. Jon gave them land in the Westerlands and took control of their iron mines. He left the rest of the ironborn where they were—for now.
Asha stood before the gathered ironborn and renounced any claim House Greyjoy still held to the Seastone Chair. She offered those who wanted to leave a chance to sail with her to Sothoryos.
Jon put Brynden Tully in charge as acting governor and sailed for home with the fleet.
Word of the victory spread fast. Westerlanders who had been taken as thralls were coming home. They would remember who freed them.
Jon stood at the rail as the islands fell away behind them.
One war was done.
The real one was still coming.