Eternity

Mormont was walking in the sky.

It was not cold at such an impossible height. There was only a faint wind that brushed through his hair, that had dabbed at his scarred hands as he strode forward.

After he'd killed Greyjoy, what remained of the mute crew of the Silence had surrendered to Mormont's forces of combined Wildlings and Northmen. They'd won through surprise, but still, Mormont's side had taken heavy casualties.

Twenty were dead. Arthur among them. While the Ironborn had lost significantly more, it was still a sharp blow to Mormont. That was twenty men who would never come home to Westeros, to the North. Men who had come to Valyria because they believed in him, and men who had died for him.

They had known the risks, but Mormont should've known of the Ironborn threat. That was what had gutted him.

It was easy enough to sail the Silence out through the southern mouth of the Flaming River and up along the coast into the same cove where the Waking Serpent had waited. It was then that Marwyn had treated both Mormont and Jon's wounds, and then tended to the dead. After that, Mormont gave himself to sleep.

And now, he was here, walking among the clouds as if he were taking a casual stroll throughout his castle. Even inside a dream-for, he knew it to be a dream- he was tired. To the point that he simply wanted to lay down on one of the soft white cushions nearby and forget about the world that needed saving, that constantly required his help. He didn't even care if he saw more nightmares of the things and horrors he'd witnessed inside the First Flame, he would welcome them gladly. After what had happened the night prior, he didn't think he'd ever be scared of anything ever again. It would need to somehow top the gleaming white horror beyond the oily gateway of black stone, the Doom of Valyria itself.

Still, Mormont pressed forward. He weaved around the clouds, waving his hand through them curiously, like a child. They felt so real to him.

He came around a large bend in the airy mist and had seen a great white weirwood tree standing atop a thick cloud. The tree itself was the largest he'd ever seen, it had to have been fifty feet tall or more.

As he neared closer to the tree, he saw a man kneeling in front of it. He wore a light grey robe, and his hair was black riddled with wiry silver, about shoulder-length. The great black beard had been braided into three separate strands. When the head of the man had turned to look at him rather incuriously, Mormont had noticed that he had no eyes nor pupils. In the two eye sockets were dancing electric sparks.

He'd recalled his very first dream, the one he'd seen back in the Water Gardens so many years ago. Those crackling blue eyes were the same ones he was looking at right now.

"Come. Sit." The rich, deep voice had said calmly. Mormont obliged. He was here for a reason, otherwise, he doubted this god would let him wake up.

He walked up to the side of the massive weirwood. He'd noticed that it was in fact a heart tree. Except the faces had begun to shift back and forth between joyful laughter, quiet solemnity, and weeping sorrow. For Mormont, it finally settled on the laughing face, the same one that belonged to the heart tree of House Mormont.

Mormont sat on the cloud. "I suppose I should be thanking you."

Only one of the black eyebrows had raised in question.

"For saving me from the Doom. I'm guessing that was your work?"

The lightning blue eyes had cleared. The head nodded in understanding. "It was." The strange man had said. "However, I would not have been there had it not been for you."

Mormont paused. How on earth did that actually make sense? "What do you mean? Are you not… A god? Are you not all-seeing."

The patience behind those crackling sparks was limitless. "I suppose I pass for what your race calls a 'God'. But even I have my limitations." said the strange man. "What do you know of the Weirwood trees?"

"The Children of the Forest had worshipped them before the First Men came to Westeros," Mormont answered. "Most of them were cut down south of the Neck. Now, they only remain in the North."

"There are more." The strange man said quietly. "But you are correct. The Children had used the trees to communicate with me and my kin. They are… conduits. If that makes sense." The man had shifted from his kneeling position and touched his hand against the gigantic Weirwood. "There are no such conduits in the eastern lands. It is difficult for us to use our power there. Especially when we must contend with other… Gods… as you put them."

"So how could you aid me in the volcano?"

"The mark on your arm." The strange man said, nodding to the angular blue tattoos still etched onto Mormont's skin. "I knew that you would need it… and me when the time came. I was right."

Mormont looked at the simple blue lines. What a strange thing indeed. What was so special about him? "Why me?"

Slowly, calmly, the crackling sparks had glanced at him. There was no expression on the strange man's face, nothing whatsoever. "Do you remember what you said in the House of Stark? Beneath the Weirwood. Do you recall your sacrifice?"

Mormont searched his memory, climbing back to the last time he'd been inside the Godswood at Winterfell. How long ago had that been? It felt like it had been centuries since he'd last sat before that tree since he'd last seen Rhaenys.

I am your man until the end of my days. He recalled the words he'd spoken. The promise he made. Mormont smiled. Of course. It was time for him to hold up his end of the bargain. "Any man can make that pledge, though." He said. "Why me?" he repeated.

The sparks looked at him in contemplation, as if they were reflecting on something. The strange man had leaned away from the Weirwood and turned to face him. "Any man could make that promise. But there are few who would keep it. And there are even fewer men like you, Starag Mormont. You, who had climbed out of the pit of damnation with his own two hands. You, who when faced with impossible odds, had defied them and created his own luck. You, who had spat in the face of one of the oldest and most powerful creatures in existence and told it to 'Fuck off'" Finally, the thin mouth underneath the beard had given a hint of a smile. "Such men have not existed for millennia. Not since the Age of Heroes, as your Maesters refer to it."

Starag Mormont had not known how he should feel about being complimented by this… entity… Whoever it was. He supposed, in a way, this strange man was his god or at least one of his gods. Had anyone ever had the chance to speak with one of them? Besides the Children of the Forest?

Perhaps there had been others throughout history who did possess some kind of divine energy. Brandon the Builder, Garth Greenhand, Lann the Clever, and the Grey King had been only a few of the ones still mentioned in the history books.

He supposed he'd take it well. A hero. Never in his life had Starag Mormont considered himself a hero. A gambler who had a fine taste for women, perhaps… But never a hero.

"So… What is this, then?" He asked. "A job interview? I'm more than willing to pay up for your assistance, I'm just a bit lost on what I need to do."

"You don't have to do anything." The man had said. "At the time, you could not understand what you were sacrificing, and you were being manipulated by others to unleash a horror that would eventually bring about the end of the world. Now that the threat has been dealt with, we are… as you say; even."

Starag had frowned. He'd had more than enough strange dreams to stop being surprised. "So you used me as a… vehicle to stop the Doom from entering the world?"

"In a way, yes." The man had nodded. "Without the world, we are nothing, and you would be even less. Only food for the devourer on the other side of space. And, I'm sure you have no objections, not after your battle with the dragon?"

Mormont couldn't argue with that. "No." He said. "But what about this sacrifice? What do you mean I couldn't understand it?"

Those crackling blue orbs had looked back to the ever-shifting face on the Weirwood tree. "To give up your life in service to your Gods means much. At least, it does to me." He had said. "There are many such creatures like the Doom in this universe, and there are plenty who even roam this world. They may not visit your corner, but they are out there, looking for food. To be "my man" as you put it, you would be giving up your life for the sole purpose of destroying these creatures, a task which would inevitably end in your death. You would not age, but you could still be killed. It is not a life I would grant easily to anyone, much less yourself."

Starag Mormont slowly began to understand the gravity of his prior words. His god was giving him a way out, a second chance to rejoin the mortal life, the soft life.

But was it really soft? Did they not still have the Others to contend with? Not to mention the power struggle and campaign to put Jon on the Iron Throne. Mormont couldn't very well go out hunting monsters and demons. Not now, at least.

He remembered the power he'd wielded in the volcano against the dragon. It had been terrifying, and incredibly dangerous. The power to summon lightning, and shoot it from his wrist as if he were throwing a rock. Even a dragon could not stop it, and dragons were fire made into flesh.

"If I refused, would the mark go away?" He asked stolidly.

"Yes."

Mormont sat back against Weirwood and looked up into the starry night sky. It was to be that after all. Some sacrifice indeed.

He'd never particularly found immortality appealing, and he never understood why other men had wished for it so ardently. How could life ever be exciting if one lived forever? How could one properly experience the joys, sorrows, ups, and downs if they had access to an infinite amount of them?

And yet he'd be able to wield the great power he'd used in the volcano. Surely, the Others would be unable to withstand him in combat. Lightning was too unruly, too dangerous, and it was fire in one of its rawest forms. He could imagine a thunderbolt cracking one of those pale figures, shattering them into a million shards of glass.

But how could he take it? Mormont could not care for an entire world, he could not babysit millions of other lives just so he could kill beasts and monsters as terrible as the Doom.

His place was on Bear Island. Hadn't his whole mission to Valyria been about them? The people in Frostgate, those who dwelled at Sea Dragon Point in Westhelm, and the others in the southern Stony Shore? Had he not gone for the people he could care about? Had he not climbed through the pits of hell for them? For his family, too?

Mormont realized he'd be trading one set of people for another, and it would be a trade that his mind would be mentally ill-prepared for. One could not love hundreds of millions. It was impossible.

And likewise, Humans were never meant to live forever. All of them, even Mormont himself, had to die. That was why their lives were so imperfect, so mysterious and painful, and yet…

And yet, great things could be created by them, of them even. Mormont saw his children. Duncan, Thalia, Jeor… He saw his cousins, his aunt, and all the people he'd grown up knowing. Even Jorah and his father. It was likely that he'd never see them again, but he'd be able to cherish the memories he'd had with them. That feeling was priceless.

Then there was Jon, and Rhaenys, and… And Arthur. Now, your watch begins. The Sword of the Morning's final words had filtered through his mind.

Mormont knew exactly what the other man had meant. He'd become a Kingsguard the moment he'd taken Jon to the Barrowlands all those years ago. Now, his time was up. Arthur could no longer go on, and someone else needed to lead the charge, to be the one to place Jaehaerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Mormont could not-would not shirk that responsibility to his closest friend. Never in a million lifetimes.

He'd made up his mind.

"I cannot accept." He said. The sparkling orbs had glanced curiously at him. Not angry at all. "Life is too precious to be made infinite. I made a promise to a friend. And I refuse to bury my children."

For a moment, the crackling spots for eyes had watched him. Probably was wondering what a stupid fool he was, to give up immortality for a handful of years on the earth. Then they had glanced back at the Weirwood. The ghost of the smile had curved upwards, and the eyes had crinkled. "Good answer."

Starag Mormont frowned in absolute confusion at the two words. He watched as the man stood up from his kneeling position to his full, rather imposing height. He must have been damn near two feet taller than Mormont himself.

"So…" Mormont began. "You'll remove the mark?"

The strange man had turned around and started walking away. He ignored Mormont's question. "You will have three days to raid the ruins of Valyria for more treasures. Monsters will not attack you, as you and your crew are under my protection. They will hide and flee in the daylight. Once those three days are up, you must leave. Humans were never meant to step foot on those lands, not while the Doom and his accursed children still haunt them. And you mustn't keep the Prince from his destiny any longer. Do you understand?"

Mormont got to his feet and nodded. "Yes, I do. But-"

"You will also be requiring a new symbol of office. Something for the followers of other gods to remember and recognize you by. I recommend searching the Grand Forges by the center of the city. You may find something there." His god had explained. "Once you have it, whatever it may be, take it to the Isle of Faces in the Gods Eye. Show the inhabitants of that place the markings on your arm. They will know you are my agent."

Starag was bloody exasperated. Was the man hiring him anyway? Even if he wasn't immortal? Had he not refused his god's offer? Who was this Prince he was referring to? Why was he taking him on as an agent? And why was he ignoring him?

"Wait! I-"

"Goodbye, Starag Mormont. Until, our next meeting, I will be watching."

That was when everything shifted and turned to black, red, and blue. The Weirwood in front of him had laughed maniacally, bleeding red sap from its lips and eyes. The tall, imposing figure of the man- the God- had disappeared, and Starag Mormont's vision had turned to total darkness.

Valyria

299 AC

The red comet was barely a quarter of the way across the sky.

Starag Mormont had seen it begin to make its bloody mark the day before. Then, his men had been mesmerized by the sight. They called it a good omen, a sign of that they'd all make it home from this voyage.

Mormont didn't know. And right now, neither did he care.

It had been two days since he'd woken up from his dream since he'd conversed with the strange man by the Weirwood tree. Mormont supposed he had been The Storm, as the Doom had put it.

Even better, Starag had awoken to find the blue angular tattoos still on his arm and chest. He never knew why the god had still chosen him, even after he'd refused partial immortality. On some level, Mormont expected that he'd never understood why that was. Part of him was willing to let the matter lie, at least for now.

Today was the final day they'd be able to roam Valyria. Mormont had scouted ahead to find the Grand Forge. It was a crumbling ruin in the middle of the city, but with a little manpower, they were able to clear the rubble from the large stone gateway.

It hadn't taken them long to find the lost armory of Valyrian Steel weaponry and armor. By this point, the damn stuff was an almost common occurrence, which had seemed more than strange to the members of Mormont's crew.

Mormont himself had decided to let the remaining men on his crew take their shares of the plunder. In a way, he was absolutely going to destroy the economic value of Valyrian Steel. But he supposed it couldn't be all that bad. Not when the world still needed saving from the Others.

As they'd begun to tidy up the place and start making their treks back to the Waking Serpent and Silence, Mormont had not found what he was looking for.

What was considered a proper symbol of office? What had the strange man meant by that? And why did he direct him to the forges of all places? Starag Mormont didn't understand the answers to any of it. He felt like a leaf on the wind, floating helplessly and without direction.

The Grand Forges of Valyria was a large stone cathedral of a building. It housed no more than fifty separate forges within, some of which likely could get right back to work. They were massive furnaces made of black dragonstone, likely designed to house far more heat than their counterparts in Westeros. The tiny stone huts reminded Mormont of Tobho Mott's own forge atop the Street of Steel in King's Landing.

Wonder what he's been up to… Mormont thought to himself as he walked among the rubbled archives of the place. Even then, it seemed the Valyrians kept a library of weapon and armor designs. Far too many to count, and likely thousands that had never been made before.

In tall ebony shelves, they had encased dusty old scrolls and books. A few looks through them had yielded some hope for Mormont. The Valyrians had drawn designs of the weapons themselves, even measuring the kinds of dimensions and angles of the fanciful armaments. Likely the kind of stuff made for the Dragonlords for when they'd charge into battle atop their dragons. Everything a modern blacksmith would need-provided they spoke and read High Valyrian, of course.

Mormont knew that any good symbol required to be out in the open. That had taken out jewelry immediately. The stuff was simply too passable to be properly seen. That, and Mormont was never one to wear overly large rings and jewels. He'd leave that to puffed-up southern lords.

Armor would have been a decent start, but it too lacked the presence necessary. Men did not care what their commander's armor looked like. They only cared about the kind of stuff their leader was made of.

In the stories, men only recalled the ancient heroes themselves and the weapons they wielded. Azor Ahai was said to have wielded a flaming sword, and the Last Hero had used a blade of dragonsteel.

If Mormont were to have a symbol of office, as it were, it would likely need to be a weapon. Another one.

Longclaw was still his personal go-to. But as he rummaged silently through the library of the Grand Forge, Mormont wondered. Could House Mormont do with two ancestral weapons? He chuckled at the thought. Longclaw would one day pass onto Duncan, and then onto his sons after him. Were Mormont to have another weapon, he could have it buried with him, it would be something of his own, a personal statement.

Mormont steadily opened up one of the dusty scrolls and blew off the bunnies with a sharp exhale. He brought the thing up to the light in the room and narrowed his eye at the pictures of the weapon. Its design, and who it was intended for.

He bit out a harsh laugh as he got a better look at it. That has got to be completely impractical. No lordling in his right mind would wield this in battle. He thought to himself. It would simply be too heavy.

Then again, the Dragonlords did not use normal, heavier castle-forged steel. They used Valyrian Steel, which was stronger, more durable, and much lighter. Perhaps one could get away with using it if it were made of dragonsteel.

Mormont could see it then. The strange appearance of the weapon would give the wielder's enemies pause, and make them believe they would have the advantage. At the same time, the weapon itself would actually be as light as a normal broadsword simply because it was crafted with Valyrian Steel. In the end, it would both serve to confuse and trick one's enemies, while also being twice as effective and never failing its master. Mormont smirked. He just had to see it in action. And if push came to shove and it was too heavy, he could simply discard it for another.

Making up his mind, he'd rolled up the scroll and tucked it underneath his arm. With the last of his men, he'd strolled out of the Grand Forge, ready to leave Valyria once and for all.

The sun had begun to set by the time they were out on the Smoking Sea.

Blessedly, the winds had been kind, allowing them swift passage out of the cove and up along the western coast of Valyria. Now, they were sailing out the way they came. There hadn't been any sight of monsters. Not for days.

Starag Mormont watched as the Silence crawled gently up the shimmering black waters behind them. He'd decided to take the Silence as a spoil of war. In death, Euron Greyjoy's ship would serve a new purpose; being one of the first and foremost defenses of the Northern naval forces.

Naturally, he'd have to have the figurehead of the mouthless maiden removed, have the Greyjoy banner cut down and replaced with Stark colors- as he planned to gift it to Ned. Finally, he'd probably need to have some more masts installed. After that, it would make a fine sailing vessel, one built for war as opposed to reaving and raping.

There had been plenty of treasure aboard that ship as well. While Mormont planned to eventually release the imprisoned survivors of Greyjoy's mute crew, he'd certainly relieve them of their Valyrian Steel weaponry. They were getting off lightly. He'd leave them at Volantis with only the clothes on their backs.

Mormont had also looked into the personal stockpile of Greyjoy himself. It was surprisingly sparse, as the man had not been one to keep all of the plunder to himself.

Yet, Starag Mormont was more than impressed at what he found. There was a large six-foot-long horn made of black dragonbone and was banded with red gold and Valyrian Steel. There were strange writings and glyphs along the bands, too.

"I am Dragonbinder… No mortal man shall sound me and live… Blood for fire, fire for blood." Marwyn had said after he'd looked over it. He'd given a shake of his head. "Don't even want to know what he'd planned to do with this."

"Looks like we'll never know," Mormont said. Greyjoy was dead. His body had also been burned to bones and ash. He dropped them into the sea, so the man's Drowned God could see to him in death.

As for the horn, he'd have it burned. Or perhaps he'd offer it up to his own god as a gift.

Among the rest of Greyjoy's pile were curious Valyrian trinkets. None of which held any importance to Mormont. But there was one more thing that caught his eye. A greatsword made of Valyrian Steel, this one had a pommel adorned with a golden lion's head. Carved into the crossguard of red gold on either side of the blade were two large rubies.

Mormont had only heard tales of a blade fitting this description. Brightroar, the ancestral blade of House Lannister. He smiled to himself as he held it. No doubt, he had a feeling it would certainly come in handy at some point down the line. But he'd keep that to himself. At least for now. Mormont knew they'd kept their journey to Valyria close to the chest. At the most, there would be rumors upon their return. Those would be manageable.

And so it was, that as they sailed underneath the shimmering red curtain of the evening sky, they passed by the border of the last island. Now, they were crossing over onto the Summer Sea, back into safer waters at last.

Mormont had silently steered the wheel, keeping to himself. It was time to go home.

At his side, he heard footsteps climb slowly up the stairwell to the helm. The matching of feet was slightly broken by a lilt. As if someone were limping.

Sure enough, Jon had stepped up onto the deck. His long face was solemn, but his grey eyes had been warm. That was a good sign.

Mormont had left the young man to himself over the last few days. He'd not taken well to Arthur's absence, which was now going to be permanent for all time. He'd not stopped performing his duties as a member of the crew, even if he was not very talkative. And Starag could hardly blame him. He himself was already missing Arthur Dayne.

The bones of the Sword of the Morning were down below in the lower decks. Mormont would give them back to Atticus Dayne, Lord of Starfall, so Arthur could be buried. Along with Dawn.

Years from now, a new Sword of the Morning would rise. Mormont knew he would be the man to train whoever it was. Perhaps Robb Stark, or one of his brothers. Mormont would gladly oblige, and continue the harsh conditions and training regiments he'd been so accustomed to underneath Arthur's guidance.

It was… strange. And at the same time, so very surreal. Mormont felt as if a hole had opened up in his chest, one that made him feel like he was all on his own now. That there would be no more early morning duels or frustrating games of chess. No more of Arthur's kindly smile, of his tactical brilliance, and surprisingly dark-humored mind.

It was not a feeling that Mormont would ever get used to. And it only made him want to kill Euron Greyjoy a thousand more times.

But you're not alone. A voice had spoken to him. It was the same voice that had called to him inside the First Flame. He looked to his right. Standing by his side, Jon was looking out over the glassy blue waters of the Summer Sea. The bandage around his right thigh had been wound tightly. It would heal, of course.

But would Jon Stark-Jaehaerys Targaryen, heal from the events that had occurred in the last few days? The last few months? Had the gaping hole in his chest been much bigger than Mormont's? Would this prodigy ever be the same again?

The answer was a resounding No.

Mormont knew indeed that the boy had been killed inside. Now, standing to his right, was the man. The king. The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

But just what kind of man would he turn into?

"Jon." He said.

Those gray eyes had flashed violet in his direction. "Yes, uncle?" His voice was hardening, becoming deeper.

Mormont realized that he'd had an infinite amount of options at his disposal. So many topics and things to talk about. So many threats they still needed to deal with. The Others, Bloodraven, the Lannister-Baratheon-Arryn-Tully coalition. So many steps that needed to be taken before he could fulfill his oath as an-rather impromptu- Kingsguard.

He remembered that Jon had lost Wolf Queen during his duel with Greyjoy. It was likely at the bottom of the Smoking Sea by now, or even beneath the First Flame, being turned into molten steel.

With every journey, the hardest part was the first step. In the beginning, before the inner resistance tried its damndest to put you in your place, to stop you from making progress.

Starag Mormont no longer felt such resistance. He'd not felt it since he'd come out of the volcano. Not after what he'd seen.

Here they were. Starting another journey once again. With much work left on their plates, far too much for either one of them to take on their own.

Well, might as well take that first step.

"You need a new sword," Mormont said with a light smile.

In response, Jon had nodded, his lips curling upward. There was understanding in the gray eyes. He also knew the score, and of the trials that awaited them. And Jon Stark was prepared to meet them all, determined to claim ultimate victory. He was ready to get to work.

"Aye. That I do."