Epilogue
"What purpose did the swords serve?" the student asked, her hand held high. Seneschal Ebrose grimaced. "Your plan to use them never panned out." He took a step down from the platform in front of the whiteboard, setting his black marker in the tray. He took a deep breath before answering.
"The Raven knew his plan would succeed, and as such, he had no need for a backup plan," he began, slowly. "He wouldn't have been much of a supernatural being otherwise," he added, drawing a few sensible chuckles from the few students in his classroom. "It's true – we all believed that they'd give us power, but I've had plenty of time to think about it over this past decade, and I believe he sent us to the Royal Museum primarily for Maester Rizh Ha Ballo," he explained. "I also believe that the loss of Seneschal Meadows was somehow important – to deny the Night Queen someone with powerful blood."
"But the Night Queen gave up," another future maester interjected. Ebrose nodded.
"Perhaps they both knew that losing him – being who he was – would be enough of a blow to thwart any plan she could have made," he answered. "I'd like to believe that the Raven saw every possibility and chose the one he did for a reason."
"He might not have gone had he known he was going to die," the first student lamented. Ebrose shrugged.
"I don't know," he admitted before perking up. "But, I do know that two of the swords were used by the men of the Night's Watch during our escape from the cave," he lectured, watching the mesmerized faces drink every word of his first-hand account of the apocalypse. "Perhaps they were only needed for that one moment in time."
"Or perhaps they were simply meant to deny the Night Queen of magical weapons?" another student posed. Ebrose nodded.
"Quite possibly," he answered.
"That still doesn't explain why she gave up," another chimed in. "I understand that dying together would end the cycle, rather than just one side winning over the other," they went on. "But it sounds like she knew that, and despite everything else, she specifically went for that outcome in the end."
"I'd like to think it was more than just that," Ebrose admitted, sitting in his chair to rest his weary, old bones. "The medallion she wore was imbued with power as well," he hesitated to use the word "magic" with them. "One history book I was able to read at Winterfell claims that Arya Stark – in life – had mastered the power of death. I took it to mean that she was an exceptionally skilled killer, but now I believe that the meaning was quite literal, rather than a flight of fancy or verbose prose," he explained. "Numerous books from that period also claim that the original bearer of that necklace was a fire priestess. She was capable of raising the dead to life, and numerous sources confirm this. We originally, and quite mistakenly, identified the Night Queen as that individual – right up to the very end," he went on, glancing at the clock and seeing his time running low. "It may have taken ten-thousand years, but the Raven was finally able to eliminate as much 'magic' from the world as possible and focused the lingering remnants of the primeval planet into as few individuals as possible – then gathered them in one spot to... finish the job," he concluded. The students looked on, deeply perplexed.
"That's it?" a young man from Essos asked. "The first ten-thousand years of human history can be summarized by the creation of 'magic' and then the removal of it – at the expense of billions of lives?" The Seneschal frowned.
"It sounds rather depressing when you put it that way," Ebrose admitted. "But yes, I would agree with that assessment." He stood from his chair and began walking to the door of the classroom, preparing to dismiss them before he was struck by a thought he felt like sharing. He paused and glanced over at his students, who were beginning to pack their books away. "When the Raven, the Child, and the Night Queen died – the dragon that killed them didn't die right away. It burned the tree in the blast, then departed. The Night's Watch spy satellites confirmed a second fire in the Ravenswood, where we had escaped from just hours prior," he continued. "And then another fire was spotted in Winterfell. The corpse of the dragon was found amongst the smoking ruins of the Gods' Eye, north of Branton. What was smoking?" he posed. The young woman raised her hand.
"The last of the Weirwood trees," she answered. He smiled and nodded.
"Once the last of the trees were gone, the dragon also perished," he explained. "And now, we have evidence that the Valyrian Subduction Zone is no longer active – though mankind currently lacks the resources to investigate it properly. Perhaps one of you will be the first to learn the truth of it?"
The students departed after the discussion had finished, albeit later than the usual finish time. He would have to apologize to Maester Rockwell for the students' tardiness later. He sat alone in the classroom and reached for the porcelain mug and the precious coffee inside it. He took a sip of the now-cold liquid and allowed himself a sad smile. He loved telling the story of his friends' heroic deeds. He hated that he knew so little about how they died... or why.
On the Wall, Lord Commander Lagberius peered out over the forest, the day warm and beautiful. The Wall was weeping, and the engineers warned that soon it would lack the structural soundness to stand upon. The construction crews were busy removing the elevator, section by section. He'd walked up here from the ancient stone and ice stairs carved into the sides, bolstered by frozen wooden planks and logs that were starting to thaw. For the first time in ten-thousand years, no snow was recorded there that day.
It took over an hour for him to safely come down, the sun beginning to hide behind the horizon. He was in no hurry – his people could handle their responsibilities without his meddling. He was proud of them. They'd overcome the apocalypse together, and now they were rebuilding the world. He stopped at the plaque they'd placed on a stone pillar built next to the old tunnel entrance. On it were the names of the two rangers who had sacrificed themselves on the suicide mission north: Rangers Lance and Beck. Below them were the names of Forscythe and his men. A smaller plaque, barely the size of a credit card, sat below it with the inscription: BENJEN – FOREVER FIRST RANGER.
The base was now mostly empty. Only a handful of Black Brothers watched the Wall now. The rest had been discharged to help rebuild and repopulate the North. Many had gone with King George back to Winterfell. When he had passed, a new King was chosen, and, for the first time in a thousand years, a brother of the Night's Watch had become King in the North. Lagberius was proud of that. He presented the new King with the last Valyrian steel sword in the world in tribute, and shortly thereafter, the King had decreed that the Night's Watch would no longer operate as saboteurs, spies and guerillas – but as the stewards of reconstruction for the North.
The King's second decree was to install a new, temporary leadership in Higgart to support their southern neighbor. After the last of the wights had fallen and summer returned to them, hundreds of thousands of survivors emerged from their hiding places, unable to return to the irradiated lands surrounding Branton. They were scared, confused, devastated and had no leadership. They were relieved when a new council was announced, consisting of the new Citadel Seneschal, Ebrose, the leader of their army, General Blythe, and the Minister of Reconstruction, Robert Martin. He made the trip down to the new southern capital twice since then: once to offer the support of the North when Blythe won the election for Prime Minister, and once again for her wedding. She'd drunkenly raised the idea of restoring the two nations and reviving the old moniker of "The Seven Kingdoms," but Lagberius had politely smiled in lieu of answering. There was no point in ruining an otherwise perfect evening with that old conversation.
He entered the situation room of Castle Black's underground base and stared at the live satellite feeds. Reports were coming in that the rest of the world was showing solid signs of recovery and rehabilitation. Planes flew again. Ships transited the Narrow Sea. Delegates from Essos came and went as before. He lamented that age was starting to creep up on him. He didn't mind the gray hair so much, but he worried about what would happen to the world after his time was up. How long would it take them to forget? How long before people said: "That never happened!" or "The White Walkers weren't real!" It had happened every single time up until then, and he was sure it would happen again.
He left the room in the capable hands of his officers and retired to his quarters. He sat down in his chair and tapped the spacebar of his keyboard, bringing his computer back to life from its sleep state. With a few clicks of the mouse, he resigned himself to doing what he should have done so long ago. Rather than sit around sulking about the future of an uncertain world – perhaps uncertain for the first time in human history – he did what so many of us do when we want to keep our memories alive: He started writing. He tapped the keys deftly, smiling. He'd already come up with the name for his memoirs:
A Reflection In Time