Tormund stared at Jon, then at the smoking black chamber, then back at Jon. "Burning eyes, screaming women, and dragons that fit in your hand," the Free Folk leader finally summarized, shaking his head. "I never liked the south, but you southerners certainly make a mess of things."
He pulled a wineskin from his heavy furs and took a long, steady drink.
Jon stood up, the obsidian dragon relic cold in his palm. The intense vision had passed, but the scent of lemon cakes and the sound of Rhaegar's mournful harp still clung to him. Lyanna had wanted him to have the North. Benjen had cautioned him against the South. All signs pointed to the cold.
"It wasn't a warning, Tormund," Jon said, his voice regaining its familiar, heavy resonance. "It was a reminder. I was running from who I am, trying to bury the dragon. But the North doesn't care about bloodlines. It cares about survival."
"Aye," Tormund grunted, wiping his beard. "And you have helped us survive. You came with us when you could have been King-of-Something. That is why you are our King."
Jon looked out into the snow-filled forest. The Free Folk were scattered, slowly rebuilding their lives far from the remnants of the Wall. They were his people now, the only family who hadn't asked him to be someone else.
"This," Jon said, holding up the dragon relic, which pulsed faintly in the twilight. "This belongs to the South. To the fire and the politics and the crowns. It is a thing of influence, Tormund, and the Free Folk have no need of that."
He walked toward the thicket of trees where they had left their gear. Tormund followed.
"So you leave it here," Tormund stated.
"No," Jon replied, pulling his axe from the snow. "If I leave it here, some other fool will find it and bring the South's trouble to the North."
He took a length of thick leather cord and wrapped it tightly around the obsidian dragon. He placed it in a small, concealed leather pouch and tied it securely to the inside of his belt.
"You are going back," Tormund said, his voice flat with understanding. "Back to the crows and the queens."
"I am going to bury this thing where it belongs," Jon corrected. "In the fire. I am going South to destroy the reason I went North in the first place." He looked at the axe in his hand, then at the small, glowing pouch at his waist. "I will not let a piece of ancient magic remind the rest of Westeros that the blood of the dragon is still here. They can have their peace without that fear."
He turned to Tormund, his eyes dark with the heavy weight of his duty. "I will take it to Dragonstone, or find some other place of fire. I will do what I must to protect the peace we fought for."
Tormund looked at his friend—the man who was no longer just a crow, or a bastard, or a King, but a traveler bound by a singular, crushing duty.
"You have chosen the coldest duty of all, Jon Snow," Tormund said, placing a massive, fur-covered hand on Jon's shoulder. "To leave the North and choose the South, just to bury your own past. Go. And if you forget the North, if you forget your oath to us, Ghost will remind you."
Ghost, who had been resting silently in the snow, suddenly let out a low, mournful howl that echoed through the deserted forest.
Jon nodded, pulling his furs tighter. He knew the cost of leaving. He was sacrificing his hard-won peace for the good of a world that hadn't wanted him.
"I will return when the snows deepen," Jon promised, placing his hand over the hidden relic. "The North is my home."
With one last look at the smoke rising from the ancient First Man ruin, Jon Snow turned his back on the forest and began walking toward the unseen Wall, ready to face the world—and the destiny—he had run from.