Thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and alerted this story, it means a lot. Thank you.
Note: Even though the Long Night has returned in this story, I'm still referring to "days" and "nights" as a way of denoting what time it is. Also, I'm delving well into the lore and history of Westeros now, stuff the TV show hasn't covered in any way. But it's fairly common knowledge among fans so I hope show only readers won't be left out.
Chapter Fifty: Lightbringer
Ancient, rusted hinges whined as the door to the Winterfell crypts swung open. Robb raised the lantern high above his head, attempting to shine the unsteady light into the darkness beyond. Already he could tell something was badly wrong. Instead of being greeted by the biting chill of the subterranean cold, a cloud of warm steam moistened his face as he squinted inside. It glittered in the light as it swirled up the twisting stone steps and clouded into a sudden freeze as it hit the open doorway. Running water echoed through the chambers below, high and sharp. Normally, in winter, the air of the crypts ought to be so cold breathing it felt like a stab in the chest.
It began in the chambers occupied by Sansa and Arya. The girls awoke in the night, freezing in their beds. Their hearth fires had gone out and the walls were cold to the touch where the hot water was no longer pumping through the hidden pipes. Arya had tried to strike a flint while Sansa gathered kindling. Seconds after the flames caught the kindling, they stuttered and died as if a giant had sneezed on it. At a loss for what to do, they huddled in Sansa's bed and waited until morning. Or, what passed for morning during the never ending darkness.
"I think we have our leak," Robb remarked, nodding down the turnpike stair. "Let's take a look."
He led the way down, feeling his way along as the lantern flickered and died. Suppressing a curse, he left the dead lantern at the edge of the stair he was on but carried on regardless. As he progressed, the sound of water dripping and running grew louder.
"Robb, be careful," his mother implored.
He didn't realise she had followed him out of the castle. "Go back, mother. You don't need to worry about all this anymore."
It was his gentle way of reminding her she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell. At the same time, he knew she would always be that – no matter who else came along. The old castle would always matter to her. He just hoped she would rein it in once he was married.
"Your father's bones have only just been interred," she reminded him. "All this hot water could damage the tombs … and not to mention we need it in the pipes in our chambers, not in the crypts. The dead don't need warming."
The dead kings and lords buried in these crypts grew angry and vengeful if you removed their iron swords. Robb dreaded to think what they'd do if their old bones ended up being washed through the yards on a tidal wave of leaking pipe water, like flotsam from a shipwreck.
"Where is it actually coming from?" Catelyn asked.
Maester Luwin was behind her, also holding a now dead lantern. Still he clung to it, as though it may spring back into life of its own free will.
"We don't know for a certainty where the source of the hot springs is," he informed them. "But it will be far below the deepest of the crypts. Below the vault constructed by Bran the Builder himself."
Robb heaved an exasperated sigh. "And the deepest crypts are inaccessible."
"Precisely, your grace," Luwin answered. "But if you want us to all to live out the long night and the winter, you're going to have to let us try to access them."
Meanwhile, Robb had reached the uppermost of the crypts, where his father, his father's father and Brandon and Lyanna stood in stone statues at the far end. A few inches of precious hot water now sloshed around their granite feet, cooling rapidly now the door above was left open. Then, Catelyn's lantern guttered out, plunging them into complete darkness. Robb had just enough time to see the steaming water spurting out of the ceiling and bubbling up from between the flagstones. It seemed the castle was positively haemorrhaging its own life's blood.
Concern deepened as Robb turned back to the stairs. "If there's only a few inches here, does that mean the vaults below are complete submerged?"
Luwin didn't seem to know. "It's a possibility, your grace."
"If they are, how do we siphon the water out?" Catelyn asked, a tremor of fear in her voice now. "We can't try to access the lower vaults if they're full of water."
As Catelyn spoke footsteps sounded from above, hastening down the turnpike stairs. "Your Grace, another leak has been found."
"Gods!" Catelyn cursed.
"Where?" Robb asked, making for the stairs.
It was now too dark to see the other person, but it sounded like their new Steward, Cole.
"Behind the godswood, your grace. The acreage there is flooded and rapidly freezing over. Then it seems more hot water springs up and melts the ice and it floods more."
Just then, a muffled thump sounded from above and a woman screamed at the top of her lungs. Men shouted and running feet could be heard all around. Alarmed, all four people in the crypts run up the stairs as fast as they could. Robb emerged first, shivering in the cold night air after being in hot, damp crypts. By the light of several torches he could see the dragon slowing to a halt. His mother came to a sudden halt at his side, having to grab him to stop herself from falling as she gasped at the sight before her.
"Dragon!" she gasped again.
Robb smiled. "Daenerys must be close behind."
"Actually, Daenerys is right here."
The voice seemed to come from the beast itself. But soon the torchlight caught a flash of silver as Dany slid down from Drogon's back. Landing lightly on her feet, she strode over to Robb and greeted him with a kiss.
"Sorry if I scared your people," she said, looking around the yard.
Robb looked up too, noticing that they were beginning to settle again. "It's all right, they're fine. Did you fly all the way from Dragonstone?"
She shook her head. "Only from White Harbour. Lord Manderly kindly allowed us to pass through his lands." Dany paused, turning her gaze to Lady Stark and dipping a respectful curtsey. "My lady."
Robb caught himself on. Placing a hand on his mother's arm, he made the formal introduction. "Forgive me, my head was a mile away. Mother, this is Princess Daenerys Targaryen of Dragonstone. Daenerys, this is my lady mother, Catelyn of Houses Tully and Stark, dowager Lady of Winterfell."
Catelyn returned Daenerys' show of deference with a smile. "An honour to meet you, your grace. Won't you please come inside out of the cold." But then she stopped abruptly, casting an uneasy glance toward the dragon. Drogon curled up in the snow, melting it with his hot scales and emitting wisps of thick steam from his nostrils. In turn, he met Cat's gaze with glassy amber eyes. This was the part in the Lady's welcoming spiel where they offered to stable the guest's horses. But Drogon was no prancing palfrey. Eventually, she added: "Er, does he have a place he likes to sleep in? Perhaps we can find something for him to eat … as long as it's not a person."
Luwin, a Maester of the Citadel, kept his distance and glowered at the beast he and his order hoped would stay dead forever.
"Oh please, don't go to any trouble, Lady Stark. Once my retinue arrive I'll be able to get their restraints and I'm sure there's some empty land they can rest in for now. If any local farmers are willing to sell some goats, I'll pay from my own purse."
"His brothers?" Catelyn repeated, as if she hadn't heard the rest of Dany's answer. Her eyes wide and over-bright. Her laugh was forced, her demeanour becoming increasingly rigid.
Robb, sensing his mother's disquiet, tried to reassure her. "There's three, remember. The other two are much smaller and one belongs to Jon now."
Just as he finished talking the other two swept down from the skies, circling before hitting the ground with a loud hiss as snow suddenly boiled against hot scales. They were almost as big as their brother now.
"Oh," said Robb. "Haven't they grown!"
By now, the yard had emptied.
"I'm sure we'll get used to having them around," Catelyn stated, looking around the deserted yards. "These things take time."
"The broken tower will be ideal," said Robb in a fit of inspiration. "Dany, come with me and we'll house them there."
Catelyn finally looked relieved. But before they could go anywhere Arya, as fearless as always, had come running across the yard calling out to them.
"Let me see! Let me see!"
She stopped dead in her tracks about six feet from the nearest dragon, open mouthed as she took in the sight of them. Viserion looked back at her, breathing steam. Dany, beaming brightly, crossed over to her. Although much more hesitant, even Catelyn stepped closer, daring to touch Drogon's neck with a gloved hand.
"Never in my life did I think I would live to see a sight such as this. Dragons, in Winterfell of all places."
Arya had more pressing concerns. "Which one ate Cersei Lannister?"
"Drogon," answered Dany, pointing him out. "He's the one I ride."
Arya beamed her approval. "He's my favourite."
As they set to housing the dragons, Sansa came out to greet Daenerys. Kissing each other on the cheek, they embraced as they became reacquainted, addressing each other as "sister". All the while, Robb continued to be troubled by the leaking pipes. The lower levels of Winterfell were still getting just enough heat to be comfortable. But that would not last forever.
As such, the great hall was still snug when they made it back there. Old Nan was sat as close to a hearth fire as her old rocking chair would allow. Her knitting needles click, click, clicked as she recited her stories for Rickon and Osha. The bitter cold, snowdrifts and endless night had driven the Wildling girl out of her new small holding and back into the bosom of Winterfell. But it was the old woman who ceased talking as Dany entered the hall, her knitted needles and all. She watched, through rheumy ancient eyes, as the dragon princess turned to face her.
"Nan," Catelyn spoke softly in her ear. "We have a guest. This is Daenerys, of House Targaryen."
Dany leaned down, sparing the elderly lady the effort of getting up, and spoke like anyone meeting an ancient for the first time. Loud and slow. "Lovely to meet you, Nan."
The old woman looked back at her, frail breath whistling through her toothless mouth. "I know a story about a dragon princess. But the long night's not the time to be telling it again."
Dany's smile was indulgent. "It sounds lovely, so I hope I do get to hear it one day."
When Catelyn and the girls returned, they all pulled up seats and gathered around Old Nan. Near the head table, at the foot of the dais, Petyr Baelish sat opposite Bronze Yohn Royce, conferring over a map, neither seemed interested in the gathering until Dany entered. Even then, only Bronze Yohn came ambling over. To Robb, the runes carved in the other man's bronze breastplate appeared as solid shadow. He greeted Dany politely, asked if it was true about the dragons, then sat on a bench at the back. Lord Robert Arryn came in last, seating himself beside Bronze Yohn and Robb. Arya shuffled away from him, then settled at Nan's feet next to Osha.
"Nan," Catelyn said, pressing a cup of hot mead into the old woman's hands. "What do you know about the Long Night?"
Setting aside her knitting and taking the steaming cup in her wizened hands, Nan looked at the expectant faces gathered around her. Robb could not tell if she knew what they were planning. Often, he thought her an old dote. But many of her hearth stories now carried an uncomfortable ring of truth to them. Even as she started this story, the white winds started blowing outside their hall, the sound like that of a lone wolf howling through the rafters.
"To the trees! To the trees!"
Theon's voice reached Jaime in waves, almost drowned out by the sudden snowstorm whipping up all around them. He managed to process what was being said, but translating that understanding into coherent action was another matter. His limbs were numb and felt like lead as he dragged himself through the swirling snows.
As soon as he reached the lip of the Haunted Forest, he threw himself inside. Instantly, conversely, it suddenly became still and quiet as the great pines offered him shelter. Seconds later, Theon made it too. Dolorous Edd, Clydas and a few of the others made it, but much farther north than them. Some of the Wildlings, many of them old hands at sudden snow storms, seemed the most relaxed of them all.
For the time being, all Jaime could do was gasp for breath and try to make sense of what had happened. Now there was no room for doubt. There was no room for questions. He saw them and he saw what they could do. Even had he believed without question, he never could have foreseen that.
"Fuck you, father!" he panted between breaths, rolling his eyes to the canopy of trees above him. "Fuck you to seven hells and back!"
When he was a boy, his father had forbidden what he deemed "silly stories" of grumpkins and snarks living beyond the wall. He called the Night's Watch a glorified penal colony and dismissed its men as wastrels and lowlife dross society had coughed up and spat out against a wall of ice. Now Jaime had seen the truth and rolled onto his back on the forest floor and laughed out loud. He laughed so loud that he drew a furious glare from Greyjoy.
"What's gotten into you?" Theon demanded, glowering at him. "I swear Lannister, I'll come over there and punch the laugh off your lips. Now shut up!"
For all his military discipline, for all his strength with a sword, it had been nothing to those … things. Strategy only worked if the other side also had a strategy. But these mindless creatures only advanced. Steel glanced off them, freezing and snapping swords like dry twigs under a man's foot. All his training meant nothing against these creatures.
Then, and this had really got him, he watched as the biggest of the ice monsters stepped forward and held out his arms. Every dead man, most of whom were slain night's watchmen, had risen from their deaths, with their eyes turned white and their memories seemingly gone. Even the dead horses got back up, with bloodied entrails dangling from their open guts and all. He had seen it; he could never unsee it. He could never doubt it again.
Eventually, he managed to compose himself before going fully mad. He struggled to sit up and then rested his back against a stout pine trunk close to Theon. After hours battling through that snowstorm, a moment to rest and take stock felt like heaven. He could process the things he saw and try to put them in order. Although it was cold already, when the Others came it got colder still. White mist, he remembered. Then all their cook fires guttered out, even if there was no wind. Then they came from the mist, slowly at first but they were lithe and quick when battle heated up.
"What are those things?" he asked, glancing sidelong at Theon. "Where did they come from? How long have they been here and what do they want from us?"
All his life he had been around people who wanted power and the iron throne. Back then he had known his enemy and knew what they wanted before they even opened their mouths. They were simple things following the same worn path of treachery, greed and acquisition. But these he could not understand and that alone unnerved him. While he pondered his new enemy, Theon shuffled over to him all the better to be heard.
"They came during the last long night," he began. "Now you know this is real, you can't interrupt. Just let me talk with none of your arrogance."
"You hurt me, Theon. But do go on..." he implored. "I'm all ears."
"See those ice monsters," Theon said. "They're the Others. White Walkers are the same thing, just Others by another name. They obey the Great Other. See those dead men they reanimate, they're called wights and they're not the same as the White Walkers. They're not alive either, just reanimated. Are you following me?"
Jaime nodded. "Yes. Go on."
As Theon continued, Jaime rested his head against the tree, closed his eyes and wished himself back in Cersei's arms.
News came that darkness had fallen in Dorne and was now spreading across the narrow sea; it was snowing in the Reach and that the winter had claimed its first lives. Carriages were now rolling through the streets of every city, town and village to collect the bodies of those who had not made it through the cold nights. In King's Landing, it had been snowing for almost a week. Jon paid no heed, at first. He was a northerner and he expected it. But the superstitious and the ignorant had reacted like it was a sign from the demons themselves.
Despite the harsh weather, Lord Mace Tyrell and set out for Highgarden to sooth his own worried people, taking Lady Allerie with him. In his place, Jon had named Tyrion Lannister as his new Hand of the King. But even the new Hand had left them in peace now, ready to get settled in his new accommodation. Jon stood by the window of his private apartments, Aemon cradles against his bare chest as he watched the snow falling outside his windows. Margaery, already dressed for bed, came up behind him and wrapped her arms tight around his waist. From over his shoulder, she pulled a face at the baby and laughed when he attempted to grimace back at her. Before too long, the babe was nodding off as Jon gently rocked him.
"It would be beautiful, if it was a normal winter," she said, turning her gaze to the window. "I'd never even seen snow until last week."
"You'll be sick of the sight of it by the time winter's done," he replied, flatly. "Mark my words."
"I think I'm sick of it now," she retorted, giving him a squeeze. "Tell me, did your special shipments make it to the wall?"
The wildfire. Jon was having it carefully removed from the cellars deep below Kings Landing and shipped north to the wall. Already thirty tug boats had left, towed behind great vessels rowed by upwards of thirty men. There would be scores more by the time they were done. Only now, he could hear for himself how the wind howled outside and the waves crashed against the bay below. It blew through the rafters of the Red Keep and even the candles in the apartments flickered on the draught, making the shadows dance and sweep across the room.
Just then, he remembered Lady Shireen's awful fool, Patches. "The shadows come to dance my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord..." It made his spine tinge with apprehension as he recalled that chilling refrain the lackwit jester continually sang. Still the little girl insisted on bringing him everywhere, including to Court. Noticing that the babe had slipped into a deep sleep, Jon carefully laid him down in the crib the Martells' had gifted him. Covering Aemon over with a thick blanket, he then sat on the bed and rocked the cradle. Meanwhile, Margaery had got between the covers and lay back watching him with a smile on her face.
"Come to bed, my love," she implored. "Aemon will be fine, now."
With his back to her, he glanced over his shoulder and returned her smile. "I know; I just want to be sure."
He continued to rock the cradle, impervious to the small creaking noise it made against the old oak flooring. Aemon yawned and squirmed, tensing then stretching out, but never awakening. Jon's moments with him were so rare he savoured every movement.
"I hear you have delayed your departure tomorrow," she said, moving over to his side of the bed so they could be nearer each other.
He momentarily lifted his gaze from the baby. "Only until evening. There's a new Maester arriving from the Citadel. An Arch-Maester, no less. Apparently, he has something special to show us."
"Ooh! Presents," she replied, laughing. "Can I come?"
"Of course," he said. "Wrap up warm, though. For some reason he wants to meet us in the vaults."
Margaery looked puzzled. "What? Why? Is it something to do with the special something he has for us, I wonder."
Jon sighed as he nudged her aside and got into bed. "Better be something the people will like. Right now, they talk of me as though I'm the Great Other himself."
She had warmed his side of the bed, for which he was grateful.
"I still don't understand all this," she said, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Who is the Great Other? Where did he come from? Where has this darkness come from and why?"
Jon closed his eyes and remembered the story. He had heard it so many times he couldn't remember the first telling. But it was Old Nan who told him, he knew that. He could hear her now, her wisp of a voice, her knitting needles clicking as she rocked in her chair.
"Have you ever looked at a map of Westeros and seen the farthest northern border?" he asked.
"Beyond the wall? Of course," she replied, lifted her head to look at him.
"Then you'll have seen that we don't have a northern border," he pointed out, then continued. "There's this place that no one's ever explored, not even the Night's Watch or the wildlings. The Land of Always Winter. Eight thousand years ago, the darkness came from there and that's when the first of the Others were seen. Their leader was the Great Other. They were marching south, bringing the long night with them, to take over the whole realm. From the Land of Always Winter, right down to the southernmost part of Dorne, they wanted all of it. But they hate warmth, and Iron, heat and light. So they need the cold and the dark to survive.
The Others carried weapons made from Ice, swords like razors according to my old nursemaid. Because they were impervious to normal weapons, they defeated every army that met them. Then they raised the dead as wights, bound to them through dark magic, to do their bidding. So every time they emerged victorious, their armies got bigger and bigger on the corpses of their slain enemies.
Anyway, the First Men and the Children of the Forest joined forces with the First Men who fought to drive them back north. But, like I said, the Others were immune to their normal weapons. Then, the last hero made contact with the Children of the Forest and they realised Others were killed by dragon glass. Then the Night's Watch was formed and the first recruits fought with dragon glass to defeat them. Once the Others were defeated, Bran the Builder built the wall to make sure the Others never returned to our realm. And he built Winterfell at the same time, just a vault and a drum keep over it. He used spells and magic to make sure the wall stood forever more and that Winterfell remained in place, so long as there was always a Stark inside its halls."
Jon's retelling of the story lacked the flair and drama of Old Nan's recitation, he noted. But broken down into bits, he realised just how many gaps there were. Even Margaery looked dissatisfied,
"So, was the Great Other killed or not?"
Jon shrugged. "I'm not sure. I think so. But can you kill a god? I think Azor Ahai had something to do with it, though."
"And what's so special about him?" she asked. "Does that Red Woman think your Robb is Azor Ahai."
Jon was sceptical. "She said the same about Stannis. Anyway, Azor Ahai was the last hero in the age of heroes. He had a special blade he forged. First the steel was tempered in water, but it shattered. Then he hammered and folded another blade for one hundred days and nights, then tempered it in the blood of a live lion. Still, it shattered. So he hammered and folded yet another blade for two hundred nights and called upon his wife, Nissa Nissa, to make a willing blood sacrifice. He tempered the blade by plunging it right through her heart and, when he drew the blade out again, it was alive with light and burning bright red."
Margaery was quiet for a long moment. "It'd be awful if you had to temper a special blade by killing me with it."
Jon kissed her head. "Just as well I'm not Azor Ahai, then. And even if I was, I would never do it. The ice demons be damned; we will find another way."
Talking about the old Long Night and the age of heroes was not enough to lift the current long night. When they awoke the next day it was to continued darkness smothering their capital. But, Long Night or no, Tyrion threw himself into his new job with aplomb and arrived at Jon's chambers with an arm load of papers, first thing.
"Your new Maester awaits you in the dragon vault, your grace. First, you must sign this and this and this."
Jon groaned as Tyrion laid out the papers before him, on the breakfast table. "Already? Tyrion, this is antisocial."
"The Kingdom never sleeps, your grace," Tyrion replied, chirpily.
"You are far too cheerful this morning," Margaery stated, gravely. "I ought to have you arrested."
"That would put a dampener on my mood," said Tyrion. "I'll try to be more foul tempered in future."
A few hours later, Jon found himself being led down to the dragon vault, Margaery was at his side, beautiful in pure white miniver fur, trimmed with snowy sables. Inside the vault, all candles and braziers had been extinguished and he couldn't see a thing in there. Even after several minutes his eyes failed to adjust to the impenetrable darkness. Furthermore, it was bitter cold. A cold that burned to breathe. Whatever this was, he sent up a silent prayer it would be over soon.
After several minutes, during which his Kingsguard filed in behind him and the door was closed, someone else moved in the darkness. A voice he did not know spoke.
"Forgive this unconventional gathering, your grace. I promise, it will be worth your while."
With little patience for mummer's theatrics, Jon ceded and bid the man be quick. Another muffled movement came, a sharp gasp and a flare of light flickered. Slowly, at first, the flame grew and built in strength. Soon, a three-foot long, twisted and sharp edged candle was burning brightly, illuminating the whole room. When Jon looked again at the peculiar candle, he could see it was made from glass and there was a trickle of blood dribbling down its twisted edges. And it gave warmth. Beside him, Margaery breathed a sigh of awe.
Behind the strange glass candle, a Maester unlike any other he had seen before was bowing.
"Your Grace, allow me to introduce myself, I am Maester Marwyn," he said, standing upright again. "Since Pycelle's dismissal, I believe you need a new one of my order. How do you like my gift?"
For several seconds, Jon was speechless. "What is it made from? How does it work?"
"Dragon glass, your grace," Marwyn replied. "It burns indefinitely, but is never consumed. It makes as much heat as it does light and it has other, er, uses."
"Like what?" asked Margaery, moving closer to the glass candle.
Marwyn hesitated. "Allow me to demonstrate."
He left the room, leaving Jon and his company oddly impressed and bewildered at the same time. When Margaery got too close, Marwyn's companion gently bid her stand back. Apparently, the edges were razor sharp. Jon also noted that when the door opened and a draught blew in, the flame did not so much as flicker.
"Uses like this, your grace."
Marwyn was standing by the candle again, although he did not return to the room. Alarmed, they all jumped back, but the vision of the Maester was gone before they could blink an eye. Minutes later, the real Marwyn returned, smiling and pleased with the effect he was having on his rapt audience. Despite the awe, Jon's inclination was to mistrust it.
"How did that happen?" he commanded. "How does it make people hallucinate."
"That was no hallucination," Marwyn explained. "You're about to set sail to wage war for the dawn, are you not? I will extinguish the candle, then I want you to take it with you. I will use the other I have with me to communicate with you while you're gone. Not even I fully understand what you will face when you reach Castle Black, so keep it with you at all times. To light it, stand vigil with it overnight, then make a blood sacrifice. Better still, ask Lady Melisandre to do it. Just tell her the candle came from me, Maester Marwyn."
"What is-"
"The Red Priestess of R'llhor, your grace. She's been at Castle Black for months, since Lady Stark refused to heed her warnings."
Marwyn cut him off before letting him finish. He knew who he meant, he just didn't know why she was at the wall. He deduced now was not the time to quibble it.
"I leave this evening, Maester Marwyn," he informed the man. "And thank you, I'll bring it. The warmth alone could be the difference between life and death."
It was the dragon glass detail that struck him, though. Dragon glass that burned, but was never consumed.
"There's no time to lose, your grace," said Marwyn. "If I had my way, you'd be on that boat the moment you set foot out of this room."
"So, how will you help?" asked Jon. "By talking to me through that thing."
"I will be conducting my research here," Marwyn confirmed. "Anything I discover I will relay through the candle. Even if it's unlit, I can still reach you, so don't worry."
Before the audience was concluded, however, Jon turned back. "Is that regular obsidian, the likes of which we find on Dragonstone?"
"Yes, just normal obsidian – or dragon glass as it's more commonly known."
"Can that be tempered into a sword, that then burns?" he asked, growing quietly confident that he was on to something.
But Marwyn shrugged. "Never heard of such a thing. But, there's no harm in trying."
Jon smiled a little more confidently. "Then please, do try. I want the smiths here to try and send the result north to me when it is done."
Head still spinning, Jon backed out of the room bringing Margaery with him. "I need you to stay with him and watch over him."
Margaery nodded. "If I can't, I'll pay someone who can."
Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute. If you have any thoughts on what's lurking beneath the crypts of Winterfell, I'd love to hear them, or just your thoughts in general now I'm passing show canon. Thanks again!