Jon Snow had been genuinely pleased by the victory at Stone Hedge.
With scarcely any bloodshed, thirty thousand rebel troops had bent the knee, and most of Stone Hedge's buildings remained intact. This was forgiveness made manifest—the King's mercy wedded to overwhelming strength.
His Majesty's latest military orders carried similar instructions: battle joined with forgiveness.
Though naturally, Jon valued the battle aspect most highly.
In this regard, Stone Hedge provided an excellent template for study.
Upon receiving notification of the engagement's conclusion, Jon had immediately reviewed the battle footage, studying each scene with the intensity of both an enthralled spectator and a student absorbing vital knowledge.
Tactics and equipment working in perfect concert, intelligence and action seamlessly linked, victory achieved with almost contemptuous ease.
Truly a model engagement.
Though some small regret marred the conclusion, it could not detract from the brilliant results achieved overall.
A full thirty thousand men—nearly half the Reach's military strength—had been claimed in a single stroke. This meant the lands east of Bitterbridge lay defenseless, ready for easy conquest and the reclamation of vast territories.
Countless victories and glories awaited those bold enough to seize them. Yet such opportunities held little relevance for him; the King's designs placed him elsewhere than the western theaters.
From the previous evening until now, Jon Snow had stood atop the Eyrie's highest tower, pondering the weight of his coming responsibilities.
The sun had already climbed well into the morning sky.
He gazed out upon distant forests and fields—all solid land, stretching to every horizon.
Strangely, Theon Greyjoy's subtle expressions and carefully chosen words from their recent conversation suddenly surfaced in his memory, heavy with the scent of conspiracy and hidden meaning.
What was that iron-born truly planning?
Jon shook his head, casting aside such pointless distractions.
More pressing matters demanded his attention.
"Reinforcements from the sea approach our shores. Complete all preparations—we depart this afternoon," Jon commanded.
Behind him, the Eyrie's aged maester served as his only immediate audience.
Yet throughout the castle, servants and soldiers had already begun their final tasks, hurrying to ready themselves for the true battle to come.
The old maester understood the reason for such efficiency.
The Light Curtain had bound people closer than ever before, creating a kind of unified organism—like the marriage of mind and limb into a single, purposeful whole.
Compared to mere displays of violence, what the maester valued most was precisely this network itself.
Flame? Light? Healing? These represented nothing more than sharper swords or heavier purses—capable of creating greater disasters or dispensing greater favors, but fundamentally unable to alter the world's essential nature.
Only the Light Curtain possessed such transformative power.
The vast abundance of knowledge and information it provided, the intimate communication and deep exchange it enabled among all humanity—the world would benefit immeasurably from this innovation. Civilization and learning would advance at unprecedented speed.
This was the true force that could reshape existence itself.
Though he could not clearly envision that future's face, the old maester held firm faith that it would surpass the present's limitations by orders of magnitude. The Light Curtain possessed potential beyond current imagination...
Ding~
A new task notification chimed within the crystal screen. After examining its contents, the maester could not entirely suppress his surprise.
Since writing those crucial letters months ago, King Joffrey's appointed castellan had kept him largely idle, assigning no duties of particular importance.
But now...
The old maester found himself studying Jon's silhouette against the morning light. "My lord, do you require me to remain and administer the Eyrie?"
Jon turned, offering a warm smile. "Maester Colemon, are you unwilling to accept such responsibility?"
Old Maester Colemon felt momentarily taken aback. This marked the first occasion Jon Snow had addressed him by name. "No, my lord, I would be honored to serve. It's simply that I assumed..."
Colemon paused, uncertain how to continue delicately.
"Maester Colemon, you misunderstand my intentions entirely. I have never regarded you as an enemy."
Jon approached, closing the distance between them. "His Majesty stands as rightful king of all Westeros, while you have sworn sacred vows to serve the people of the Seven Kingdoms. Could it be that I possess so little faith in your integrity and honor?"
Jon's words carried evident sincerity. "We are allies in purpose, if not yet friends in familiarity."
Colemon found himself speechless, managing only a slight bow in acknowledgment.
The reasoning proved sound enough. Yet from his heart's depths, the aged maester struggled to fully embrace their current circumstances.
The Connington family remained under house arrest, after all.
Jon felt no surprise at the maester's reserved attitude. He activated the Light Curtain and employed modification privileges personally granted by the King.
Ding~
The crisp notification drew Colemon's attention instinctively toward the glowing display.
In the next instant, his eyes widened like a man witnessing miracles.
"This! My lord, it should not be thus. The past is buried, this..."
Jon approached and gently placed a reassuring hand upon Colemon's shoulder. "To provide you with pleasant surprise, I secretly submitted an application for your formal recognition at the Citadel. Unexpectedly, their review process delivered me the greater surprise first."
Colemon stared at the stone floor, trembling slightly.
"The Citadel requires no man to abandon his birth name," Jon added carefully. "So tell me—should I address you as Maester Colemon Baratheon?"
The records documented everything clearly.
Youngest son of Lord Lyonel Baratheon, the "Laughing Storm," grandfather to King Robert—Colemon, born to a common woman.
Legend claimed Lord Lyonel had legitimized the boy and granted him the proud stag name.
Colemon released a deep, shuddering sigh. "No, my lord. If acknowledgment must come, simply call me Colemon Storm. Please alter the record—such claims are merely rumors and speculation."
Within the personal information displayed upon the Light Curtain, the word "Baratheon" blazed conspicuous and thoroughly out of place.
He had never harbored fantasies concerning Storm's End or the crowned stag banner.
Jon honored his preference and amended Maester Colemon's surname back to "Storm."
"Even bearing a bastard's name, your ability and character more than qualify you to guard the Eyrie," Jon returned to their primary discussion. "I must lead this expedition personally. Only with your steady hand maintaining the castle's operations can I depart with confidence."
Colemon glanced once more at the Light Curtain. Within a quarter-hour's span, he had achieved recognition from the Citadel and acquired a surname that should have remained buried in the past.
What choice remained to him?
King Joffrey approached total victory over the Seven Kingdoms through a series of brilliant triumphs, rendering the Eyrie merely an insignificant pile of stone by comparison. How could he allow His Majesty to question their mountain fastness's loyalty?
"I stand ready to serve His Majesty," he could only agree.
Jon nodded with evident satisfaction. "Rest assured, during my tenure, the Eyrie shall earn only glory and victory!"
Jon's spirits appeared decidedly elevated.
Old Maester Colemon studied that confident face, memory stirring. "My lord, I once knew Lord Jon Connington well. You share more than simply his given name."
Jon Snow's smile carried hints of self-awareness. "I'm told my father named me in honor of Lord Jon Arryn."
Yet he knew of Jon Connington as well.
The former Hand of King Aerys II, exiled for his failure at the Battle of the Bells—where he had allowed rebel Robert Baratheon to escape capture. Rumored dead somewhere on the continent of Essos.
Such similarities could hardly represent mere coincidence. Simple emotion, perhaps, or veiled warning?
Jon smiled with bitter humor. Too sensitive by half.
"Departure!"
He commanded both his Sixth Regiment and the newly-formed Royal Fleet Marine First Regiment.
"Victory!"
More than two thousand souls melted into the mountain passes, advancing northward through treacherous terrain...
On the second night, they glimpsed bright campfires and heard the distant clamor of many voices.
They had arrived at their destination.
Jon Snow gripped his flame-wreathed sword, waiting for the optimal moment to unleash his attack.
Within Storm's End's ancient halls.
Joffrey gently caressed the swollen belly of his red priestess, her condition resembling a woman in her tenth month of pregnancy.
The flesh felt warm and smooth beneath his touch.
Who could have suspected that within lay not some small and precious new life, but a creature of shadow—hideous and terrifying beyond mortal comprehension?