Blythe
As they walked through the halls of the Royal Museum, Knight-Major Blythe couldn't help but feel like this was all one big joke. From ancient swords and suits of armor to faded uniforms and rifles from the last war, she questioned whether or not any of this junk could actually help them defeat an army of dead things – hundreds of millions of them at that. She knew better than to question Turk, now the Three-Eyed Raven, though. His answers left much to be desired. Instead, she simply allowed herself to follow her mission to protect the two Maesters.
They rounded another corner and ventured into the east wing of the immense structure. They walked through a red stone replica of part of the old Red Keep and passed a gaudy throne made of melted swords. They passed a plaster model of a dragon skull, scoffing that their ancestors had ever believed in such nonsense. Turk appeared to show no interest in the displays – or rather, the Raven – but the Maesters would point to each display and confirm their knowledge with each other, murmuring with boyish excitement. Ah, Meraxes, the Seneschal would sigh. Bran the Broken, Ebrose casually name-dropped as they passed a wooden wheelchair behind a thick layer of plexiglass. Finally, Turk stopped and focused on a display. He raised his finger to point.
"This one," he announced, his voice wistful. Behind the glass was a large stone slab, and on top of it a worn stone sarcophagus. The group examined it closely. Blythe leaned in to read the information printed on the wall behind it.
"'Stone sarcophagi, such as this, came into fashion in different periods of history, especially amongst the nobility of Westeros. Although the purpose appears to be entirely decorative and memorial in nature, superstition regarding the raising of the dead by evil magic was often cited,'" she read, snorting at the last line. The group looked to each other for validation. "This sarcophagus dates from the 4th Century AC and has been identified as the knight Ser Lyn of House Corbray, hailing from the rolling hills of eastern Westeros. On the sarcophagus itself is an inscription, seen inset below. Inside the sarcophagus, high-tech imaging reveals that he was buried with his family's most prized possession: their family sword, Lady Forlorn,' which would have typically been passed along to their descendants after death. The sarcophagus itself has remained unopened since sealing Ser Lyn inside," she completed. She turned her head back towards the sarcophagus and stared at it hesitantly.
"I'm gonna say it," one of the Night's Watchmen piped up. "Who's to say we don't crack open old Lyn's box here and he doesn't jump out at us ready to slit our throats?"
"Then we shoot it," the other one grumbled, clicking the safety off of his rifle. "The real question is how the hell do we get into the case to begin with? That's bulletproof glass."
"There is an emergency release," The Raven announced suddenly. "Behind the display, underneath the floor panel. It should lift up without struggle.
"And the dead man inside?" the first Watchman reminded him.
"The sarcophagus was blessed, and the seal remains unbroken. Ser Lyn sleeps," The Raven assured him. "For now."
"For now?" Blythe asked.
"Breaking the seal may awaken him, if the Night King so wills it. I do not know if she is aware of our presence here and I dare not risk looking for fear of revealing our plot," he explained. Ebrose slid carefully past the glass case and knelt down to the floor. Sure enough, a small floor tile with a single hole drilled into it gave way when he nudged it. A metal latch, covered in years' worth of dust, sat waiting for activation. He looked up at the Raven, who nodded in confirmation, before clicking it over. A soft metal click could be heard from the back of the case as the plexiglass pane gently separated from the rest of it. The two Black Brothers approached it and began sliding it to the side, resting it gently against the wall.
"Sorry for this, Ser," Blythe whispered as she entered the box and placed her hand softly on the stone. The cool stone felt electric to her skin. She looked up at the men. "Are you going to help me, or not?" she grumbled, placing her other hand on the lid. The Raven stood next to her and joined, with the two brothers on either side of them.
"Ready?" Ranger Beck announced. The other three nodded. "Heave!" he shouted, causing the group to push against the stone. The stone slab resisted as it groaned and crackled. Finally, it slid a few inches, allowing a small amount of light to enter for the first time in a thousand years. Blythe looked down into it as she pushed. Ancient dust covered a dark blur inside. The stone moved more, revealing the blur to be a funerary shroud, tattered and threadbare. The shape was unmistakably a human, hands clasped across the chest with a large cross-shaped lump underneath it, stretching down to the knees. As the stone slid enough to make out Ser Lyn's entire corpse, the group stopped pushing and gazed down at the lifeless form.
"Ser Lyn," the Raven mused. "I hope you don't mind if we take your Lady for one more dance?" Blythe looked over at him, half offended, and half bewildered. The Raven showed no fear, only a smiling sort of comfort as he reached into the funerary shroud and separated the plate mail gauntlets from their coveted prize. Lifting slowly and carefully, the ancient sword slid from the cloth and into daylight for the first time in a thousand years. The group marveled at it as the Raven slowly and deliberately raised it into the air.
It shone with an intense luster, as if it had been polished mere moments ago, despite the metal appearing so deeply gray that it was nearly black. The long, dark blade was covered in the telltale banding and mottling resembling a flowing river or the rings of a tree. The hilt was ornately decorated, though the grip had disintegrated into ruin. He brought the sword down and rested it carefully in the palm of Turk's hand, the light gleaming off of it. The air was still as the group held their collective breath at the beauty and craftsmanship of it.
"The grip will need replaced," Ranger Lance offered finally, looking it down. "The pommel looks like it's going to snap off any moment... but aside from that she looks brand new – like she was just forged yesterday. How's that possible?" The Raven smiled, as he was want to do.
"Valyrian steel," he began, taking the ever-so-familiar tone of expertise they'd come to expect from him. "Is not regular steel. It was forged in old Valyria, before the Doom overtook it. The smiths used magic and dragonfire to forge the steel into weapons, armor, and other items." The group scoffed, with the notable exception of Seneschal Meadows. Blythe took notice.
"Seneschal," she began. "You're an expert in history. Do we have any more modern explanations for this sword?"
"I'm afraid our friend here is quite accurate," Meadows confirmed, nodding in approval. "After Valyria sank beneath the waves and that part of our world became uninhabitable, the secret to creating Valyrian steel was lost forever. Only a few smiths have ever been able to work it and the last smith said to have been even remotely familiar with it died long before the War," he went on.
"There have been some modern attempts to replicate it," Ebrose chimed in. "However, even with modern science, materials, and techniques, nobody has ever been able to do it."
"Which makes this blade quite special," The Raven agreed. He turned to the Night's Watchmen. "You must take good care of this Lady for my friend, Ser Lyn," he instructed, offering the sword to Ranger Beck. The Ranger took the sword carefully and nodded in understanding. "Now, let us move on. There are two more swords here we must recover," he commanded, walking away from the group.
"What about Ser Lyn and his stone box here?" Blythe called out.
"The seal is broken," he answered. "It makes no difference if you close it or not. If he awakes, he'll escape." The group looked each other over again before looking down at the skeletal remains of the knight. The Maesters were the first to chase after the Raven. Blythe and the black brothers soon followed.
"Raven," Meadows called. "If I may ask you a question?" The Raven did not bother to stop.
"Go ahead," he offered.
"You said that Ser Lyn was your friend? Were you... personally acquainted with him?" Meadows asked. The Raven cocked his head as he walked.
"I'm personally acquainted with everyone. And no one. I see all there is to see, and I've seen all that ever was. Looking at Ser Lyn is the same as looking at you now," he explained. Meadows' eyes lit up.
"You can actually look into the past?" he confirmed.
"Not really," The Raven sighed. "Time is just an order of things. It's the chapter listing, not the rulebook."
"What does that even mean?" Blythe asked, annoyed.
"It's... troublesome to explain," he answered quietly. "At any rate, we're here." The group looked at the display. An ornate wooden stand was placed on top of a dais. Resting on the old wood was a massive, shining sword of nearly black steel – larger than any they had ever seen. The steel rippled with the same banding as Lady Forlorn, but the hilt, grip and pommel were in perfect condition. Blythe looked over at the information card and began to read.
"Heartsbane," Meadows announced. "My ancestral sword." Ebrose looked over at him. The older man appeared near tears.
"Indeed, it is," the Raven allowed. "By rights." He motioned to the floor again, to which the black brothers found the loose floor tile, allowing the glass display to separate safely. Blythe read the information card out loud.
"The largest Valyrian steel sword recovered thus far, Heartsbane was the family sword of House Tarly, which went out of existence nearly one thousand years ago. This Greatsword would have been wielded with two hands, leaving the wielder unprotected, as they would be unable to carry a shield, but able to deal devastating blows capable of ending a contest instantly. A sword such as this, swung with both hands, would have easily cut through other swords, armor, and men – in a single strike," she read. "This sword was taken to the Citadel in the care of the last member of House Tarly, Grand Maester Samwell Tarly, where it remained until it was rediscovered after the Great War in the ruins of the Citadel Tower. Although the bomb that struck the tower had done immense damage and destroyed countless priceless artifacts, Heartsbane was found without a dent or scratch to the blade. The rest of the sword was restored to the original descriptions of the sword in ancient texts and donated to the Royal Museum on lend from the Seneschal of the Citadel," she concluded.
"How," Meadows began slowly. The Raven turned to him. "How am I his last descendant?"
"My friend Sam took the Black, just as these young men have," the Raven explained. "He did not want to. He was forced to, by his father. While serving in the Night's Watch, he befriended the Bastard of Winterfell, Jon Snow. You're aware of him, yes?"
"The Last Dragon," Ebrose nodded. "The King of the North. The King-Who-Never-Was. The Betrayer King. Aegon Targaryen the Sixth."
"I'm not sure how he would feel about all of those titles," the Raven admitted dryly. "But he would agree with you on all of them, I'm sure. During his travels with Jon Snow, Samwell Tarly rescued a wildling woman from bondage. She was newly a mother with an infant son, the result of an incestuous rape from her own father. Together, they fled towards the Wall and safety when they were came upon by the White Walkers. Sam attempted to protect the pair with his sword, only to have it destroyed by the White Walker, who was uninterested in an overweight craven. The White Walker approached the infant child, but was stopped and killed by an obsidian dagger, thrust into his back by Sam. The woman pledged herself to him and eventually, they fell in love. She bore him more sons and daughters in secret as his wife. The Citadel, nor the remnants of the Night's Watch, would approve of his marriage, so she took the name Meadows to distinguish herself and her children from the bastards of the Reach," he concluded.
"Flowers," Ebrose grunted. Meadows looked over at him. "The bastards of the Reach were all named 'Flowers' in those days," he explained. Meadows nodded.
"And you're not the last descendant, merely the last male descendant of the unbroken Meadows lineage," the Raven smiled. "There are a few others of your blood who do not share your name."
"Walking corpses, you mean to say," Meadows muttered glumly.
"Not at all," the Raven assured him, turning to Blythe. "She's your cousin with a common ancestor as recent as two-hundred and seventeen years ago." Blythe took a step back.
"What, me?" she gasped. "I descend from Samwell Tarly?" The Raven nodded.
"Yes," he confirmed. "And a number of interesting figures from history as well, if you cared to know. As a matter of fact, I only know of one person still living who could claim a more interesting family tree than you." Her eyes grew wide.
"That's all well and good, but this thing is a monster. There's no way we could effectively use this," Ranger Lance interrupted, resting his hand on the hilt. The Raven turned to him.
"Oh no, it's quite light," he reassured him. "Give it a try." Ranger Beck nodded to him. Lance placed his other hand on the hilt and gently lifted it from its stand.
"Oh, wow," he exclaimed quietly. "You're right. She is much lighter than she looks but still," he went on, swinging it gently through the air. "Pretty hefty."
"One more," the Raven suddenly announced as he quickly turned away. Blythe frowned.
"Why the sudden hurry?" she asked. He didn't reply. "What's happened?"
"I suddenly have a bad feeling," Ebrose announced. "Like... a pit in my stomach... I know this feeling..."
"We must make haste," the Raven chided, ignoring them.
"She's near," Meadows practically whispered. "Isn't she?"
"The last sword is here," the Raven announced, pointing at an equally ornate wooden stand, though this stand was clearly meant for two swords, with only one displayed. The crowd hustled towards it, with the black brothers wasting no time in locating the mechanism to release the glass case. Blythe read the inscription on it aloud as they did.
"One of a pair made just prior to the separation of the North from the then Seven Kingdoms, Oathkeeper and her twin Widow's Wail. The two swords were created from the destruction of the Valyrian Greatsword Ice, which once belonged to the long-lost House Stark of Winterfell, in the Kingdom of the North. The swords were presented – "
"There's no time," the Raven interrupted, turning suddenly towards the end of the long hallway they'd come from. "She has found us."
"What? How?" Blythe panicked, as she reached for the rifle hanging from her back. Ranger Beck turned to the Raven, handing him Lady Forlorn, unusable without a grip, before carefully grabbing Oathkeeper from the rack. The two black brothers stepped forward in the hallway, holding their new weapons at the ready. The Raven reached out to the rack and pulled the ancient scabbard belonging to Oathkeeper to his side, sliding Lady Forlorn into it carefully.
"There is a fire exit," the Raven instructed. "Not far behind us. We can take it to the rear courtyard." Blythe reached for her radio.
"Pilot!" she barked. Silence followed. "Pilot, are you there?" She demanded again. She looked up to the Raven.
"No matter," he shrugged. "We must go now."
"Go where?" a voice called from the end of the hall. The Nights Watchmen both gasped. The group focused. The source of the question was a small woman draped in a red robe, a shining ruby glowing eerily from her neck. Behind her, a tall, white figure in dark armor that glinted pale and blue reflections from the fading light. The hallway became frigid instantly.
"Maesters, you must go," the Raven urged. The two older men looked on in horror as their eyes confirmed the existence of White Walkers. Blythe put her arm out in front of them, never taking her eyes off of her enemy.
"Start moving," she growled, backing up as the older men began to hurry towards the emergency exit. She brought her arm back to the underbarrel of her rifle and lined up a shot at the woman. From this distance, hitting her would be trivial – even moving. The woman began slowly walking forward, the White Walker close behind. The Raven frowned.
"I've been looking for you," she announced. "For a very long time," she drew out the conclusion of her sentence with dramatic flair. "What a joy it is to be reunited, even in... that," she went on, cringing at Turk.
"Stop where you are!" Ranger Beck shouted, holding Oathbreaker out menacingly. The woman continued walking, letting out a piercing laugh that made their stomachs churn nigh to the point of retching.
"Oh dear!" She cried. "What are these, then? The Night's Watch? Taking a break from hunting grumpkins and snarks, are you?" she chided before stopping. Now only a few meters away, the two men could easily make out her features – her brown hair hidden under the red robe. Her soft features showed her to be young, but deceptively so. The White Walker behind her stood taller than most men, with white hair draped over half of its' face and a sword strapped to its back. The white skin was wrinkled and appeared frozen, like a bleached corpse who died scowling, the eyes a crystal blue set against pitch black. The black brothers readied themselves for the attack. The White Walker stepped forward, in front of its master, but had yet to draw its blade. Blythe watched as long as she could before the trio reached the exit, always ready to fire.
Blythe kicked open the emergency door, scanning the staircase and surrounding gardens for enemy. Quickly determining that the area was safe, she ushered the Maesters out and down the stairs. Upon reaching the ground, she led them around the building through the grass towards their helicopter.