Ebrose

Ebrose stood on the highest walls of the old keep, his hands resting on the cold stones. Overhead, his thoughts were joined with the roaring of aircraft. Though it was once a common sound, now it felt so alien after a year of silence in the skies. In the distance, faint flashes could be seen over the waves, with rumbling following some time later. They've started the bombing, he lamented. They've struck the first blow. Meadows stood next to him, silent. The two men took in the moment, knowing full well that it may be their last days on a dying planet.

"Maesters," a soldier called out from the doorway of the keep. "You should come inside," he beckoned. "It's not safe out here." Meadows smiled.

"It's fine," he reassured, waving him off. "Don't worry about us. We'll be in shortly." The soldier frowned but accepted the answer, vanishing in a rush back into the keep.

"I've no plan to go inside," Ebrose muttered.

"Oh," Meadows nodded. "To hell with that." They both chuckled. "We're witnessing history," he added with a sigh. "Though I'm not sure it entirely matters."

"Come now," Ebrose urged. "Do you think Samwell Tarly thought that way?"

"Absolutely," Meadows laughed. "The man was craven." This took Ebrose aback.

"Craven?" he asked. "The man was legendary," he insisted.

"A craven man who became a legend," Meadows agreed. "I've read more of the Black Books than you have and believe me, the 'Sam the Slayer' jokes never got old."

"We sure did," Ebrose frowned, peering out at the rising sun. "I wonder how many more of these we'll see."

"I don't suppose we could use this time to miraculously find an answer to all of this? That'd be serendipitous," Meadows suggested with a chuckle. Ebrose remained silent, racking his brain. Meadows stopped smiling and looked over at him. "It was a joke, old friend."

"Yes," Ebrose replied. "I know. However," he added slowly. "We know that the Night King personally oversaw the final battle at Winterfell, right?"

"That's right," Meadows agreed.

"Then it would be possible that this person may be personally leading this assault as well," Ebrose concluded.

"We don't have a large sample population to compare to, but it's not an unreasonable thought," Meadows agreed. "Melisandre may indeed be also observing the bombing – though likely from a safe distance."

"Safe from the shoreline impacts, sure," Ebrose agreed. "But if they were to pummel further inland, then perhaps..." he trailed off. Meadows furrowed his brow and contemplated the idea.

"If you're asking me whether or not I think traditional ordinance would be capable of destroying her, I cannot say," Meadows replied. "That's not to say that I don't support your idea, however," he went on. "I just think that we would need to develop some sort of obsidian-based weapon in order for it to be a guaranteed kill."

"I'm not even sure about that," Ebrose admitted. Meadows hummed and nodded.

"I highly doubt we'd be able to even locate Valyrian steel, let alone create an effective weapon from it," he argued. "If that is, in fact, what the Stark girl used. To point, however, we should remind ourselves that even though the weapon she used may have worked against that individual, the threat itself remains."

Ebrose began slowly walking down the wall, with Meadows close behind. He felt like pacing. I do my best thinking on my feet, he had always told himself. The Seneschal made no complaint. The planes overhead were now out of sight, beyond the horizon where they were creating a warzone. On the outer walls along the shore, it seemed as if every soldier in the castle was now positioned for defense – as if they were expecting the dead to rise from the waves. He shuddered at the thought.

"The Royal Museum," Meadows suddenly began. Ebrose turned around and looked at him. "That's where we would find Valyrian steel weapons."

"What? Two ancient swords?" Ebrose snorted.

"Three, at least," Meadows mused. "Heartsbane, the ancestral sword of House Tarly. Oathkeeper, belonging to Ser Jaime Lannister or Ser Brienne of Tarth, depending on which accounts you read. The final sword is Lady Forlorn, allegedly, of House Corbray."

"Three, then," Ebrose grunted. "Still not enough to be effective."

"There are more," a familiar voice called from the other end of the wall from whence they'd just came. The two men turned back and saw Knight-Major Blythe standing by herself, far from her men. She seemed preoccupied, or possibly sleepwalking. Her face was turned slightly skyward, her eyes glazed over and milky, and her slow footsteps were uneven and uncoordinated. "I can help you find them."

"Ser Blythe?" The Seneschal called out, concerned.

"Not exactly," she replied wistfully. "Though I hope she won't mind the intrusion." Ebrose stepped in front of Meadows and held him back from approaching.

"Something's wrong," he whispered. "That's not her at all."

"Then who, pray tell, are we speaking with?" Meadows called out.

"Not a who," she answered, turning towards the sea. "What, more like." Ebrose took another step.

"Then what?" he demanded. Blythe cocked her head to the side, her gaze never leaving the sea.

"I'm the Three-Eyed Raven."