THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN
"I don't like it."
Gilly kept her eyes away the grim bones. The dragon lay at the heart of the library, sprawled across a marble floor. The maesters had arranged its bones so that the corpse curled, as if in sleep. The beast's head was taller than her with voids where its eyes should have been and broken horns pushed out of its forehead. There were sword marks in its limbs and many bones snapped in half, held together with crude copper rods as though it were some astronomy exhibit.
"Reminds me of-" she paused, lowering her voice and shuffling closer to Sam. The scholars circled them, clutching at books, pretending not to listen. A library of spiders, Gilly thought. "Them things up North."
"You can touch it if you like," Sam offered, reaching forward himself to give the snout a friendly pet. "Closest we'll ever get to dragons. I 'ope." Gilly didn't seem so keen but she eventually placed her tiny hand beside Sam's. Even in death the bones were unusually warm as if they were made from fire.
"Why is it here?" she asked.
Sam shrugged. "A trophy. Your lot keep the bones of your conquests on necklaces, we display them in buildings. There are more in Kings Landing, in the is only a baby." He pointed to a plaque, surmising. "Pulled out of the rubble, boiled and arranged. The maesters studied it for a while but its magic was gone."
The sound of rain drowned out the rustle of books. Gilly looked up. The library was a narrow but impossibly tall building with a central cavern that reached to a golden dome. A great spiral of shelves spanned the full distance. There were no steps, simply a gently sloping floor. The oldest records were at the top while the works of the current maesters lined the shelves around them. Hundreds of aspiring men and women milled about like ants. They all made a clanking sound as they passed. It came from the partially assembled chains around their necks. Gilly thought they all looked alike, dressed in poorly formed grey rags.
"You'll be late," Gilly prompted, when Sam hadn't moved.
He realised that she was right and slipped his hand away from hers. "Remember, I will be gone all night."
"I know."
"Make sure you're in our quarters before dark and don't open the door to strangers."
"I'm from the North," she reminded him sternly. "These pale-skinned, soft-fingered Southerners will lose a hand if they lay a finger on me."
Sam felt like an idiot. Of course. "Right well. Bye – I guess."
"Go..." she insisted.
Sam worked his way up the spiral back-bone of the building, round and round. Every now and then he looked over the banister. Gilly was far below, circling the dragon. He turned his attention to the shelves on his right. He'd never seen so many papers in one place – well, with the exception of Snow's office when he refused to tidy. Jon had probably drowned in the offerings of crows by now.
There were fewer people towards the top, thinning out with every rotation he made of the building. At the end the bookshelves stopped and were replaced by glass displays housing fragments of the forgotten world. He paused at one. Inside were remnants of a Night's Watch uniform from a time when the linings were foreign silk, stained with squid ink and padded out with feathers to stave off the cold. In the case beside he found shards of dragonglass and a fragment of Valyrian steel shattered in a nameless battle.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" A voice observed. It dripped with heaviness, drawing out the vowels as though it were a language not-yet mastered – or perhaps it was purely disdain for the common tongue.
"Oh – aye," Sam replied, before he saw who'd spoken. He ducked at once in a mock bow. "Sir – ah – maester, that is," Sam stammered.
"Do not waste your cowering on me," Archmaester Marwyn replied. "The others feed off servitude as though it were the warmth between a woman's legs and they, trembling eunuchs. I'd rather you put up a fight. The best knowledge is always dearly earned. Put some blood into it. At least," Marwyn leaned uncomfortably close, "that's what the old gods say."
Marwyn was unsettling, Sam thought. The other archmaesters moved as shadows, weighed down with their chains. Marwyn was a creature intent on living. His stunted, spherical appearance was disadvantaged by an abundance of silver hair. He smelled of last night's tavern and the wench in his bed. God knows, the stories were true but he was the only maester who'd accept the services of a Night's Watch man.
"Not quite what I was expecting, might add," Marwyn continued brusquely. "Night's Watch – big buggers normally, or tall and thin with wolfish features. You're neither. Born for the books. Northern families aren't much for reading. Still..." he paused to reassess his charge, stroking his excessive belly with stained fingers. "You're no regular grey sheep. Something wild stuck on you. Maybe it was that pretty little Wildling."
"She's no Wildling!" Sam snapped, before he could think. "She's – she's a farmer's daughter. A Snow."
"Craster's wife – daughter – both?" Marwyn knew exactly who she was. "No matter. They're all Northerners this end of the kingdom. She could be queen of the whole fucking North for all the weight it has down 'ere."
Marwyn paused and took a more careful impression of the Night's man. He had soft edges but there was ice in his eyes like a proper man of the North. Good. A Northerner was exactly what he needed. "There are only two types interested in magic. Those who covet it and those that fear it. Which are you, Samwell Tarly?"
"Neither. I want to learn."
"Not a very good liar, either," Marwyn was amused by him. "Well, for what it's worth, we all have our secrets here. Brought you this." He handed Sam a crow's message.
Sam took it curiously, unravelling the small strip of parchment. The bottom corner was stained in something that looked like blood. His hand shook after he'd read it. "That can't be."
"Oh 'fraid it is. The last Stark boy, dead at The Wall. By his own men no less, second Lord Commander in a row. He'd make a terrible king. Not a bone of political sense in him. But there you are."
Sam handed back the paper, trying not to cry. His father used to hit him when he wept. Even now, he felt a phantom burn across his back.
"Well, you won't learn anything about magic loitering around the library." Marwyn led him away.
THE WALL, THE NORTH
Flames licked the stone walls of Castle Black. They bled ice. Dripping in sad pools below each torch. A wolf paused at one, stooping to lap the cool water. It stopped – looked up. Red eyes peered from pure, white fur. Its growl was soft, like a distant storm.
A door at the end of the hall opened to the smell of soot and candle oil. The sullen, weathered face of Davos Seaworth appeared as a shadow against the stone. The wolf approached and slid by the merchant, who closed the door and turned back to the grisly corpse of Jon Snow.
It was laid on the butcher's table. The blood had stopped flowing but not before pools of it collected in the grooves. There were tears in his armour where the flesh could be seen, pink and ruined. It was almost frozen by the cold. Ghost sat by the table. The windows of Snow's office were bolted closed. Tormund boarded the door. Outside, the sun was weakening, giving way to the night.
Davos' eyes were locked on the Red Woman. He knew what she had done – what she must have done. That poor child, who'd have made a better ruler than them all, burned and left to blow away in the snow. He'd buried what was left himself. He had to believe that there was a point to it all. Those hopes of his were cold and dead on the table between them.
Tormund Giantsbane felt the same. He moved over to the table and pointed at the body, anger rising in his voice. "I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night," he started, the eyes of the room on him. "but I was wrong. The dead are coming and we have nothing."
Jon Snow's sword lay atop his body. It was clean. The Red Woman touched the blade, dragging her fingers up to the hilt. She was fascinated by Snow's body, as if she'd seen it before. The others were wary of her. Witches were bad business, not matter what side of The Wall you came from. Blood magic had a price. It was unpredictable.
"Who says that you are wrong?" the Red Woman replied.
Tormund felt the icy breath of the wights at his neck. "Are you blind, witch? Your Snow is dead. Those scared fucks outside would sooner run than fight what's coming. They didn't see what we saw. The bones of our petty wars are coming back to kill us."
Tollett nodded. He was standing closer to the wildling. Those that had survived Hardhome were brothers now. "No one will believe. Not until they see it. By then it'll be too late. Snow killed one of 'em. I saw the dead thing shatter under his sword. Now he's dead too and so are we."
Davos could hear footsteps somewhere in the castle above. They'd come for the body. They wanted it burned in the square for all the world to see. Thorne was Commander now. "I've heard you talk," Davos addressed Melisandre, "your god can bring a man back from the veil."
"I have seen it," she replied. "A man returned six times, no less. The Red God has power over death, just like these creature of ice." Although she'd never heard of the Red God raising a thousand at a time.
"You're telling me that you can bring Snow back?" Tollett moved closer.
"Not Snow," she replied, her hand slipping away from the sword. "If the Red God wills it, he will be more than a bastard born of the North."
The footsteps became a sudden thud against the door. Everyone in the room spun, drawling their swords.
'Open up!' A voice shouted. 'It's time!'
"We cannot let them take the body – they will burn it!" said Tollett.
Melisandre tilted her head at the direwolf. "Let them."
There was no ceremony to it. Snow's body was placed on the ice and then all manner of scrap wood thrown on top. Broken furniture, pine branches, the remnants of ruined dwellings from the last battle – until all anyone could see was a temple of rubbish.
Everyone came to watch. The wildlings stayed together, bordered on one side by the Night's Watch from the battle of Hardhome. Many of them wept silently, or stood in disbelief. The rest of the Night's Watch drank and cheered, tossing whatever they could find onto the pile. Some pissed on it. Others spat. Alliser Throne ordered black oil to be poured over the mess and then he lit it with a flaming torch.
Melisandre held Snow's sword. Guarded by Tormund, Davos and Tollett, she knelt on the ice and started to whisper against the wolf's ear.
The flames spiralled around the pyre then exploded from the top, roaring into the air far above the reach of the castle. The sudden heat pushed the crowd back, covering their faces. A filthy hiss sent the crows into the sky like a black rain. Melisandre and Ghost watched the flames burn away the kindling. There was something wrong with the flames. At the Red Witch's words they turned black. The crowd gasped.
Tormund and Davos glanced at each other.
"You seen this before?" Tormund asked. Davos shook his head.
The black flames burned without heat. They consumed the wood, evaporating it until the flames were left coming out of the ice, circling the untouched corpse of Jon Snow. Melisandre sliced her palm open on Jon's sword and let the warm blood run over the back of the wolf, marking its fur. Ghost's eyes were as red as the witch's robes.
"The fuck is going on?!" Thorne drew his sword, brandishing it at group of traitors. "Kill that fucking witch!"
Tormund, Tollett, Davos along with half the onlookers raised their weapons in protest. The lines between the group started to blur as magic stirred in the flames.
"You'll do no such thing," Davos replied.
"Filthy pirate!" Thorne's face began to swelter with fury. "I ought to cut the rest of those fingers off and feed them to our savages," he gestured at the wildlings.
"A smuggler, I'll thank you but it was not clean work, of that you can be sure. Come any closer with that hasty sword and I'll show you what happened on the Blackwater."
Their intentions were interrupted by the howling of Snow's direwolf. That unearthly sound made the ice ring.
"Now..." Melisandre whispered. The wolf broke free. It took off, striding the burned ground before it leaped into the black flames. It froze, suspended in the flame above the body. Then, with a crack of thunder, the wolf and flame vanished leaving Jon Stark asleep in the snow.
ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS
"Khaleesi..."
"How many times, don't fu-" she lost her footing, slipping toward the obsidian floor before Jorah's strong arm was around her waist, keeping her up. The torch in his other hand flared at the sudden movement. Cheek to cheek, they paused then, "Say nothing."
He obeyed, although this time he kept his hand gently on her back as they delved into the surreal cave. It was a strange place, out of proportion to them. Too big, is all Jorah could think.
"It's dead," Daenerys whispered. "Can't you feel it? There's nothing in this cave but the water." It flowed at their feet. She could see the deep pool in front. It was the only surface that the flames reflected from. The obsidian remained as impenetrable as the night. "What?" she asked, when she felt Jorah's hand at her side, holding her back.
"There," he replied, pointing the torch toward the ground. There was a collection of bones, scattered on the cave floor. It was not some random lost animal – this was a collection. Something had left it here. Long ago, by the state of the remains. They turned to dust as his boot nudged the pile. "Nothing has been down here in a several thousand years. We should leave."
She wouldn't. The silver queen was drawn deeper. It called to her. Maybe it was the dragonglass, or the faint traces of magic, buried in the ice. Whatever it was, she moved away from her knight and pressed further. At the pool of water, she knelt. Voices. No. Not voices. A strange song made of ice. She could hear it in the water – or was it trapped in the walls? Ghosts. Or worse. Her hand brushed through a peculiar pile of ice beside the water. It refused to melt at her touch. There was more of it, always in piles, scattered through the cave.
"My Queen..." Jorah was to her side. He'd found an alcove, if that was the right word. Ser Jorah was an ant before the gaping second cave, buried in the first. This room had no quartz. Instead it was solid obsidian. A great cataclysm of heat had melted the ceiling into a nightmare of stalactites which protruded like the inside of a dragon's mouth. The only reason he could see the terrifying roof were the pools of fire scattered around the floor where the ground had come apart. In the centre was a huge, red-wood table and on it, a glass candle that appeared to have been snapped from the ceiling. "Weirwood. No one would dare craft such a thing. It is sacrilege."
"And that?" she nodded at the odd, dragonglass object in the centre of the table. It was a gnarled thing that almost looked like -
"It's a glass candle," Jorah interrupted her thoughts. They carefully picked their way toward the table, staying well away from the foul-smelling, burning pools at the edges of the room. The table was so large that they had to scale an obsidian boulder beside it. Jorah went first, then leaned down and pulled Daenerys up after him, doing his best to avoid the bruises on her arms from their earlier climb. It was a good thing that the lighting was poor as they both looked like hell.
It was a very bizarre feeling, walking the surface of the table as though they were ants thieving scraps. The candle itself was normal sized and all alone.
"What are glass candles?" she asked.
"Magical things," Jorah replied, wiping sweat from his face. The flaming pool nearby were impossibly hot, leaving the air suffocating and most likely toxic. "The red priests have them and a few maesters in Westeros. They're out of fashion but a couple of hundred years ago your kind used to use them to communicate. There are probably several left in the ruins of Valyria. This one isn't working though. I haven't heard of one being lit in three-hundred years. It takes-"
"Magic?" she replied, a dangerous twinkle in her eye.
Jorah sighed patiently at his queen.
THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN
It was dark and Sam had been cooling his feet in the vaults of the citadel for several hours. Marywn, fuck knows where Marywn was. Probably forgotten about him and stumbled into a tavern. Sam fiddled with the empty chain around his neck. It didn't even have an introductory link on it. He felt strange in the scratchy, grey cloth. All he'd done was trade black for grey and nothing more. If he was perfectly honest, he preferred the Black. It was for a purpose, he reminded himself firmly. Even if Snow was dead, the Others were coming.
"What are you doing 'ere?"
Sam spun around and bumped into a table, knocking an oil lamp over. He fumbled over it hastily. "Uh I – was told to wait."
"Not 'ere, you fool. Come on. Late already." The older maester was half blind with a swollen, pale eye, grabbing at Sam until he got a fist full of his robes and tugged him down the corridor. "Too many new ones. In my day being a maester required diligence, skill – a sense of direction!"
"Oh – I'm not a-"
"Timing doesn't hurt. And to think, your lot 'll be teachin' those paper kings. Seven gods won' be enough to save the kingdoms with you lot at the helm. Go on, in!"
"I don't under-"
"Get in!" The old maester shoved Sam into the stone room with considerable force for an old man. It was lit only from the light at the door. In the centre of the room, placed on the barren floor, were three black glass candles. They were ugly, sharp things about half a foot high.
Sam saw them and realised at once the mistake. "Maester-" The door was slammed on Sam's face before he could get another word in. Everything went black. It was the kind of pitch that he imagined death to be. He wasn't afraid of the dark but there was a certain, unsettling quality about a void. If this was death he didn't fancy hastening its arrival. "Right then..." Sam was resigned. He paced a few steps into the room and then sat on the ground, feeling around for the candles.
They were sharp. Unpleasant to the touch. Exactly like the dragonglass daggers wrapped in his Night's Watch cloak. There was no wick at their tip – nothing to burn except the glass itself. Not that he could light them. Glass candles worked on magic and Sam's blood didn't have a drop of witchcraft, of that he was certain. It was no surprise that the maesters couldn't get these things to work. You needed a witch, or a dragon. Considering he had neither, he prepared for a long, dark night.
ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS
"What is a thing like this doing in a cave at the edge of the world?" Daenerys asked. "Say what you haven't said, ser."
Jorah flinched. "It's only – the size of the cave, your grace. The table we stand on. It sounds like-"
"Like what?"
"A giant's tomb."
She turned to him, dirty pale hair stuck to a cut on her shoulder. "The giants are stories of the North."
"True ones," he assured her. "I have seen giant bones myself. There was an abandoned giant cave on Bear Island. We used to play in it when we were boys. Same look about it."
"But that is the North. We are further South than any one has been."
"The world is not a piece of parchment, my queen. It is like a dragon egg. The sailors know. All the waters are the same, twisting around the lands. We breath the same air. If you go far enough Eastyou'll end up West. If we keep going South surely we'll find the snows."
"I've heard that before..." Dany was troubled.
"If I still had lands I'd wager them all that there's an ocean to our right and it's called The Sunset Sea." Which meant that Jorah was closer to home than he'd been in years. Not that it was his home any more. If he showed his face he'd be marched to the sword. He longed for the forests sometimes. For the cool touch of snow on his face and the silence. If they lived he hoped to return there and live out his days amongst those trees in a cabin, far from the world.
"Jorah?"
"We should bring the candle with us," he shook himself back to reality. It must be the poison in his body, causing his mind to drift. His leg had stopped hurting but he couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing in this light.
Daenerys agreed. "All right." She approached the horrid thing, kneeling in front of it. Curious, the thought, it didn't look like a candle at all but a -
A brilliant, green flame erupted from the glass candle the moment she drew near. Both of them were startled by the ungodly sight. It was silent, cold – burning from the stone itself. They'd always said that dragonglass was fire trapped in stone, perhaps that was a literal description. Daenerys reached for it, drawn to the flame. She was vaguely aware of Jorah's protest but a moment later her fingertips touched the flame.
She was somewhere else. There was darkness then a round, panicked man retreating. Light – ravens and a tower somewhere in the North for there was snow beyond a window. Then eyes, blue as the oldest ice. They saw her.
"No! You must not touch!" Jorah dragged Daenerys away from the flame. It extinguished. They fell to the Weirwood table, his arms around her waist and head on her shoulder. Her skin was freezing beneath his. He rubbed his hands over it, trying to warm her from the shock. "Daenerys? Daenerys..."
Eventually she stirred and turned to him. "What was that?"
"Glass candles are windows," he explained. "You cannot control what you see – or what sees you. They are as dangerous as they are useful."
"But I saw – eyes. Strange eyes... Blue and old."
Jorah's alarmed gaze focussed on the candle. He stilled against his queen and simply held her instead. "That, my queen," he whispered, "was a Whitewalker. An undead demon of the North."
"Is that what you seen in your dreams?" she whispered.
"No," he replied. "Not in a dream."
THE CITADEL, OLD TOWN
Sam stared at the three flames. One green, one red and the other an unusual purple he'd seen only in pressed flowers from the Summer Isles. In the green flame was a woman with silver hair and the eyes of a dragon. Then the hideous image of the Night's King, peering curiously out from the fire. He'd seen those eyes in a haze of violence the night he'd saved Gilly. The other flames were empty. They continued to burn for a moment until the woman vanished, then all three extinguished.
He was left clutching his chest. Magic was waking.
The door opened, startling him afresh. That bastard Marwyn was there, silhouetted like a demon. He carried a Valyrian steel rod, tapping it on the stone. He'd traded the grey maester robes for fine silver ones.
"Interesting," was all he said.
