Ebrose
Scratching at his beard in annoyance, Maester Ebrose peered out of the window of the old castle and stared at the deep blue waters of the sea. With the sun slowly retreating behind the horizon and fuel limitations keeping the generators on for only essential uses, his plan to defeat the army of the dead would have to wait until tomorrow to continue to take shape. He sighed and glanced down at the notebook. It's a shit plan, anyways...
A knock at his door snapped him back to reality. He rose from his desk and marched over, opening it carefully to avoid the shrieking of ancient metal-on-ancient metal. Seneschal Meadows stood on the other side, looking gaunt and pale, as if he hadn't slept nor eaten in days. He very well might not have, for all Ebrose knew.
"Sorry to disturb you, Maester," the Seneschal began. "The scouts have just returned. They bear... hmm... unpleasant tidings from the shore." Ebrose frowned and nodded.
"I'll join you, then," he replied, stepping through the narrow opening and into the hallway with his colleague. "Are you well, Seneschal? You look pale," Ebrose commented, frowning. The Seneschal nodded.
"I'm tired," he admitted. "Otherwise, I feel fine. I suppose it's the brisk temperature." He was right about the falling temperature, at least, though Ebrose suspected that the recent loss of Grand Maester Gorion had accelerated his stress. The two men ventured through the narrow stone corridors of the ancient castle before arriving in what was once the main chamber, where the ancient kings and queens of dragons would receive their audiences. Now, the military had turned it into their command post. Rows of folding tables and chairs were lined with computers and papers with a small army of people working tirelessly night and day to keep abreast of any changes in the situation. Meadows frowned upon seeing a young staffer sitting on the throne, a bottle of water dangling haphazardly from their hands as they stared blankly into the distance.
"Their stress must be immense," Ebrose sympathized, noting his companion's discomfort. Only a historian would care about something so petty at a time like this, he secretly thought. Meadows stopped and pointed at the throne.
"Do you know who the last person to sit on that throne was? In earnest, I mean," he began. Ebrose nodded.
"Danaerys Targaryen," he replied. "The Mad Queen." Meadows bristled.
"There's no indication she was truly mad," Meadows grumbled. "She rescued hundreds of thousands from slavery and, for all intents and purposes, was the cause of the first time of actual peace in our history. We know that she was murdered by her lover and nephew at the insistence that she was evil, but was she truly?"
"Aegon didn't take the throne," Ebrose commented. "Why else murder his own kin and lover if not for her madness?"
"His," Meadows answered glumly. "He was raised a bastard with few friends, who volunteered for the Night's Watch at a time when they were widely considered a joke only to find a meteoric rise to greatness and spurning it at every turn, then to abandon his post, and – on top of all of this – to find out that the woman he was bedding – arguably the most beautiful woman of her time, and a queen, no less – was actually his aunt?" Ebrose paused in thought.
"She burned the city after it had supposedly surrendered," Ebrose countered. "Hundreds of thousands died needlessly."
"Her other cities had also surrendered and allowed her entrance, only to betray her trust at every turn. She learned from her mistakes, as any good ruler would. Have you ever known Branton to be place of honest people and high moral virtue?" Meadows reasoned. Ebrose nodded in agreement.
"She learned from her mistakes except for her judgment of Aegon Targaryen, it seems." Meadows frowned deeply at the notion.
"And to see the last throne she ever sat in to be disrespected so..." he trailed off. Ebrose waited for him as he trembled softly before sighing deeply. "These are my troubles at a time like this. What a disgraceful man I've become,"
"Come now," Ebrose chided. "We are the memory of our people, as we always have been. Now is the most important time to reflect upon our past – especially as our ancient enemy bears down upon us." Meadows offered a glib smile.
"You're too kind," the Seneschal praised him as he continued walking. Ebrose followed, carefully monitoring for any further signs of being unwell. As they entered the hall, one of the military leaders approached them. A short, spry woman, Knight-Major Blythe was in charge of the scouts. Her blonde hair, usually short, was now knotted tightly in a bun. Her uniform was impeccable despite the circumstances. What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in respect from the troops. Even the commander of the castle, General Poole, paused before making a decision without first consulting her. She offered her arm, which the Seneschal gratefully accepted.
"They're in the old war room," she explained as they crossed the great hall through a small, stone alcove off to the side. "We believe it's time." The small passageway led to an ancient chamber dominated by a large, wooden table in the shape of the continent of Westeros. A fire burned in the fireplace, where two young soldiers huddled near for warmth. A third stood outside on the balcony overlooking the sea, a rifle slung over his shoulder. As the group entered, the soldiers sprang to their feet and offered a salute. The Knight-Major offered her salute in return, allowing them to step aside and offer the older men their seats. As Blythe helped the Seneschal take his seat, Ebrose took his as well. Blythe turned to the soldiers and motioned towards the Maesters.
"Tell them what you told me," she commanded, leaning back against the old table.
"Sir," one of them acknowledged as he turned to the scholars. "We departed Dragonstone three days' past and arrived at Weymouth Bay Port near nightfall of the same day. We found that our detachment holding the port was well supplied and in good spirits, with nothing new to report. Returning scouts indicated that the entire area had been without incident or even sighting of the dead in days," he continued. Blythe crossed her arms and stared at the floor, waiting for the bad news. "We departed the marina and entered the town proper where we camped for the night in an abandoned home. The next morning, we discovered a trail of what appeared to be thousands of footprints that gradually became more and more tightly packed and clustered. The trail led us to the highway to Rosby. We followed the road for the full day before we reached the junction to Deerfield and were unable to continue further."
"Unable?" The Seneschal asked.
"Yes, sir," he answered glumly. "We began to encounter the dead at this point. Stragglers, most like – we killed a few, burned the corpses as we went – but they were all ignoring us almost entirely and focused on their slow march towards Rosby. We estimate seeing at least one thousand with our own eyes, possibly more."
"If they were ignoring our men to march towards Branton, then we can only conclude that they're gathering for some sort of purpose," Blythe spoke up, causing all eyes to turn to her. "We've got the drones out now looking for them. I'd recommend you Maesters stick around here for a bit. If these reports are accurate, it won't be long before we spot the group."
"Sir," the two soldiers saluted as she dismissed them. Meadows turned to Ebrose and grimaced.
"What do you think, my old friend?" Ebrose pondered the question before turning to Blythe.
"We've no contact with any other outposts?" he asked. She shook her head.
"Nothing," she confirmed. "For all intents and purposes, we're all alone."
"I don't feel comfortable making any assumptions," Ebrose grumbled. "However, if the army of the dead is... let's say gathering, then we must assume that they're going to attack." Meadows nodded. Blythe pulled herself off of the table and approached the fireplace, reaching her hands out for warmth.
"I agree," she replied. "I would appreciate your backing when I advise General Poole to recall our people at Weymouth Bay Port back to the island and begin preparations for an invasion." Meadows nodded and closed his eyes as if to take a short nap, or to lose himself in his thoughts. Either way, it appeared he was leaving Ebrose in charge of the decision making. He's not suited to these sorts of matters. He'd rather be dreaming of dragons and princesses.
"You have our support, Knight-Major," Ebrose assured her. She nodded at him in respect.
"If you two would remain nearby, I'll update you as soon as the drone operators make contact," she instructed, bowing slightly before leaving them to return to the operations center. Silence followed. The Seneschal didn't open his eyes, even as Ebrose stared him down and pondered their situation.
"You want to ask me," Meadows began, wistfully. "'What can we possibly do to assist in the event of a siege?'" Ebrose smiled slightly.
"Indeed, Seneschal," he confirmed. "From the ancient texts, as well as the events of the past year, it would seem that any resistance would be futile." Meadows shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"If only we had a dragon," he murmured, perhaps as a joke or perhaps seriously. Ebrose chuckled, unable to tell which one the truth was, and which was the jest.
"If only."