The air in the solar smelled faintly of herbs and damp earth, the perfume of the Neck. The shutters were half-open, letting in the marsh breeze. A lamp guttered in the draft, spilling wavering light across the scattered parchments on the desk.
Howland Reed sat hunched over them, his narrow face drawn in concentration, his lips moving softly as he translated lines of old tongue. His voice was quiet, but steady, as though reciting a lesson from memory. Beside him, Meera sat cross-legged on her seat, her brown hair tied back, her eyes bright as she listened.
"12,000 year ago, The Children of the Forest signed a pact with the First Men," Howland murmured, tracing one pale finger across the parchment. "to end their long-standing war over Westeros, agreeing to peaceful coexistence and establishing a division of lands where the First Men took the open areas and the Children kept the forests, especially the deep, ancient woods. To mark the treaty, the Children carved faces into all the weirwood trees on the island, where the pact was signed, leading to its name as Isle of Faces. Remember, daughter—the old words live forever, in wood and water, though Andal who invaded Westeros later, started cutting down their cherished weirwoods trees, leading the Children to make The ....."
He was interrupted by the soft,hesitant knock.
"Enter," Howland said without looking up.
The door creaked open and Jojen stepped in, his eyes as ever distant, as if fixed on something beyond the walls of Greywater Watch. He closed the door carefully, and for a moment only the marsh-wind filled the silence. Then he spoke, his voice low but certain.
"It has begun, father."
Howland lifted his head. His green eyes studied his son's pale face. "Tell me."
"Robb Stark has crossed the Neck," Jojen said. "The banners of the North march south, their spears bound for Riverrun. Soon they will gather there, host and guests alike. I saw it."
Meera leaned forward, her eyes wide. "You saw? With your dreams?"
Jojen shook his head slowly. "Not a dream. I warged into a crow. Its wings carried it high above the causeway. I saw the banners myself—the direwolf of Stark, the merman of Manderly, the flayed man of Bolton, the giant of Umber and almost all houses. Thousands of them."
Meera's breath caught. She turned quickly toward her father, words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them. "Then Jon was right—"
Her father's voice cut gently, but firmly. "His Grace Aemon."
Meera flushed, lowering her eyes, and nodded sheepishly. "His Grace Aemon. He…he already knew."
"How?" she asked after a moment, lifting her gaze again. "How could he have known the Northern host would gather at Riverrun?"
Howland did not answer. He turned instead to the window, his eyes fixed on the grove, where the pale face of the heart tree glimmered like ghost in the moonlight. The branches stirred in the wind, whispering secrets only the old gods knew.
Meera followed his gaze and understood. A shiver went through her.
Howland Reed remembered the boy's last request before leaving Greywater. Aemon Targaryen, sat before him in his solar and said: When the North rides south with Robb Stark, send your men to the coasts. To Stony Shore, to Sea Dragon Point, to the Saltspear, to Blazewater Bay. To every lonely holdfast and fishing hall that clings to the sea. The danger will not come from the land, but from the water. When the wolves are gone, the sea will bite.
At the time, Howland had thought it strange. Now the truth loomed before him, vast and terrible.
"Aemon saw it," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "He knew what was coming. If the North empties itself for war, the coast will lie bare. Raiders, or worse the Greyjoy's. He was clear: we must be ready."
Meera's face paled as the weight of it settled on her. Then she straightened her shoulders. "Send me north," she said suddenly. "Let me watch the seas near Bear Island. House Mormont will need warning if the waves bring foes."
Howland's eyes softened, pride flickering there. Before he could reply, Jojen's voice came, quiet but unyielding.
"And I must go further to Driftmark."
Both Howland and Meera turned sharply. "Driftmark?" she echoed.
"The king will need me," Jojen said. His pale green eyes, so often haunted by visions, were calm now. "I dreamed it—or perhaps I only know it. But when he sails to the island, he will need information that see further than what's in front of him. Let me go, father."
For a moment, Howland Reed only looked at his son. Then he drew a long breath and nodded. "So be it."
Already his mind was moving, swift as the currents of the Neck. "We will send men to each coast, quiet men and marsh-runners who know the reeds and the rocks. Not to fight, but to watch. And when they go, Jojen, they will take birds. Hawks, owls, crows and small beasts as well. Through them, you will see and tell Aemon when the sea bring raiders."
Meera drew closer to her brother, hugging him tightly. "Be careful," she whispered.
Jojen gave her a faint, weary smile. "The greensight show me enough, I'll be safe."
Howland Reed looked at his children—the daughter with her spear and stubborn fire, the son with his strange, ancient and quiet burden.
And so the Lord of Greywater Watch turned back to his parchments, to the old words of the First Men, and the horrifying entity 'The Night King'.