Prologue: A Melody of Grief


The iron bells riddled with centuries old cracks chimed for the last time and finally fell still. Silence descended upon the Vale, enveloping the snow-capped towers of theEyrie, the misty pathways of the bereft mountain sides, the lifeless body of a man who once bore the proud title of Warden of the East. His wrinkled countenance shrunken with age or perchance the pathetic farce his marriage had become was coated with a numbing layer of tears, tears prominently lacking on his still breathing wife´s face, a face painted with disbelief, agony and perhaps even delight, though it was hard to tell what with the shadows lurking in her fiery mane. Somewhere deep in the castle Ludmilla awoke, shivering from the dawn´s bitter embrace. In the sky´s azure expanse a falcon sped towards the burning horizon. For a brief moment the sleepy lass thought it flew as high as honor. If only the heiress knew how wrong she was…

Thousands of leagues away Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Realm and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms was having a truly horrible day. "What do you mean he is dead?" roared the now over-weight ruler, his face turning a brilliant shade of red, not much different from the half-spilled contents of his wine glass. To his credit Varys did not even flinch upon the verbal assault. "My lord…the death must have come upon him in his sleep. Certainly you have noticed how frail the Hand has become in the past months and..." "Enough!" bellowed Robert, eyeing the Master of Whispers disdainfully. "I will not have the name of my dearest friend tarnished, regardless if dead or alive. Now get out. You have served your purpose, spider. I need time to think." "As you wish, your highness" came the prompt response from the already retreating eunuch. Yes, Robert Baratheon was having a truly horrible day indeed.

"Dead! One of the usurper´s dogs is dead! How splendid! I believe this calls for a celebration! Bring out your best wine, Illyrio! Prepare the feast! Oh, how marvelous, how absolutely marvelous!" The Beggar King´s joy seemed to know no bounds. Now with one of his enemies gone and the wedding of his younger sister nearly as good as done, the throne of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to be closer than ever. Yes, justice would be finally served its due. Surprisingly the magister´ s thoughts for once mirrored that of his guest. However when he thought of justice it was not the leering face of the now dancing pompous man that appeared in front of the merchant´s eyes, but rather the feline form of a gentle girl with hair the color of spun silk and eyes such a lovely shade of violet that one could possibly drown in them. That morning Daenerys also believed to have glimpsed a flying creature in her slumber. However it was not a falcon but rather a fiendish dragon coated with fire and blood that skimmed her conscience.

The Stark household was for once silent. There was no sound of running feet, laughing children or arguing adults. The smiths slept. The guards slept. The Warden of the North slept. Only Bran climbed higher and higher into the crevices of the ancient stronghold. Another leap, one more pull and…Summer broke out in pitiful whimpers some thousand feet below. "What is it? What have you seen?" whispered the boy. The wolf came up with no response. And so Brandon Stark continued to climb that night, deaf to the melody of grief the three-eyed raven chanted in the heavens above.