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Snow fell heavy on the Wall that night, the kind that swallowed sound and bent the world into silence. Each flake drifted down with patient purpose, piling against black stone and weather-beaten wood, covering cracks and scars that a decade could not mend.
Jon Snow stood atop the eastern rampart, his gloved hands resting on the cold, slick stone. Below, Castle Black crouched like an old wolf, half-starved but stubborn in its survival. Smoke curled weakly from the chimneys, thin threads against the white sky. The yard held no more than two dozen men at drill, their swords clattering in the snow. Too few. Always too few.
Ten years had passed since his banishment, ten years since he had bent the knee to exile rather than crown. Lord Commander once more — though the title meant little now. The Night's Watch was a shadow of itself, a brotherhood whittled down to bones and whispers. Some nights he thought the Watch might die in his hands, just as the Wall itself was dying — stones cracking, ice melting, no longer the great barrier of legend but a fading scar of a war men were already forgetting.
Ghost padded at his side, silent as the snowfall, red eyes gleaming in the dark. Jon ran his hand along the direwolf's fur, thick with frost. "We're relics, you and I," Jon murmured. Ghost tilted his head, as if in challenge.
He thought of Sam, now far away in Oldtown, a maester with quills and scrolls instead of sword and mail. He thought of Arya, somewhere across the sea, chasing horizons. And he thought of Sansa, ruling the North with all the sternness of their father. He had not seen her face in years, only letters carried by ravens, words sealed in wax. She wrote of prosperity, of harvests and halls rebuilt, but between her careful lines Jon felt the weight of loneliness, the bite of duty. The crown was colder than the snows of the Wall.
The brothers drilling below fell out of formation. A boy no older than fifteen cursed as his sword slipped, the dull steel ringing against the stones. The others laughed, cruel in their mirth. Jon's voice carried down, hard as winter iron.
"Pick it up."
The laughter died. The boy stooped, cheeks red, and lifted his blade. Jon's gaze held the others, one by one. "Mocking weakness makes you weaker. You are brothers of the Watch. Act like it."
The men lowered their eyes. The boy nodded, swallowing his shame. Jon turned back to the snow. Respect came easier these days, but it was the respect a man gave a scar — a reminder of pain, of survival, but not of glory.
A horn sounded, one long note. Not the wildlings — not anymore. They had their own camps far beyond the Wall, scattered tribes and free folk who wanted little with castles or kings. No, this horn was for riders. Visitors.
Jon descended the steps, Ghost at his heels, boots crunching on fresh snow. The courtyard doors creaked open, and three men rode in cloaked in grey and brown, their horses steaming from the long climb. At their head was a raven-haired knight, the snow crusted on his beard. He dismounted with the stiff grace of a man who had ridden far and hard.
"Lord Commander Snow," the knight said, pulling back his hood. "I bring words from the south."
Jon studied him. The man wore no heraldry, only plain leathers, but his eyes were sharp as a drawn blade. "And who sends such words?" Jon asked.
The knight dipped his head. "The Hand of the King."
Tyrion. Jon felt the name in his chest like a sudden ache. The last time he had looked into the dwarf's mismatched eyes, it had been at Dragonstone, fire raging, and death between them. That had been a lifetime ago.
The knight produced a sealed letter, the wax stamped with the lion of Lannister. Jon broke it open with numb fingers.
Lord Commander, it began, in a hand Jon knew well. The peace we bled for grows thin. Strange tidings reach us from across the sea — ships vanishing near Valyria, fishermen whispering of fire in the deep, sailors swearing they saw wings against the clouds. Bran has visions he will not speak plainly of, though his silence troubles me more than his words might. He believes you must be told. Come south, if your vows allow it. If not, then send word, for I fear the storm will not wait for oaths or walls.
Jon folded the letter, his face unreadable. Ghost growled low in his throat, ears pricking at some unspoken unease.
The knight shifted, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"
"Only words," Jon said. But in his heart, he felt the old pull of fate — the wheel turning once more, dragging him into wars he had tried to leave behind. The Watch was meant to guard the realms of men, but what realm remained when darkness stirred in the ruins of Valyria?
The snow thickened, swirling in the courtyard like ash from some unseen pyre. Jon lifted his gaze to the Wall, higher than any tower, older than any kingdom. It loomed against the storm, but even the Wall could not keep shadows from creeping in.
After ten years, the world comes knocking again, Jon thought. And the North answers, whether it wills or no
The Red Keep loomed against the dawn, its towers catching the first pale light of morning. The sea beyond Blackwater Bay stirred in restless waves, gulls wheeling and crying above the city. From the streets below rose the scents of smoke and spice, of piss and horse dung, and the murmur of ten thousand voices already at quarrel or barter.
Inside the throne room, torches guttered against the high vaults. The Iron Throne itself sat crooked upon its dais, black and jagged, its blades catching faint glimmers of firelight. It had always looked less a seat for kings than a trap laid for fools.
Tyrion Lannister stood at its base, his small body wrapped in a doublet of black and silver, his mismatched eyes fixed on the empty chair above. Ten years a Hand, ten years whispering counsel into ears that grew less willing to listen. The weight of the chains at his breast felt heavier than they once had, though he knew it was not the gold but the years.
The hall doors groaned open, echoing through stone. Lords shuffled in, cloaked in silks and furs, their banners carried behind them: the falcon of Arryn, the trout of Tully, the sun of Martell, the rose of Tyrell reborn in bastard green. A kingdom held together with frayed threads, each tugging its own way.
Ser Davos Seaworth, grizzled and grey, strode at Tyrion's side. "They're restless," Davos murmured low. "Half the council wants ships for the Narrow Sea, the other half wants coin for rebuilding the Reach. None of them wants to hear of shadows in Valyria."
"They'd sooner listen if the shadows carried purses of gold," Tyrion muttered. His eyes flicked toward the dais, where Bran the Broken sat silent in his wheeled chair, his pale face turned not to the lords but to some faraway sight only he could see.
The King's gaze unnerved them still, though he seldom spoke. When Bran's voice did break the hush, it was flat and distant, like wind in crypts. Some called him wise, others whispered crippled fool, but all feared the silence between his words.
The lords bent knee, their bows stiff, their courtesy thin. Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale was first to speak. "Your Grace, raiders strike the coastlands. Ironborn, though they fly no banner we know. We must answer with steel, or the Vale will suffer."
"Coin first," said Lord Paxter Redwyne, plump as a grape. "My ports rot, my vines wither. We bled for this throne. We deserve recompense."
"We all bled," snapped Lady Margaery's cousin from Highgarden, her voice sharp as her green eyes. "The Reach feeds half this realm. If the crown will not guard our fields, then why should our fields feed the crown?"
The murmurs rose, clashing like steel on steel. Tyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. "If I may—"
"No," said Lord Royce, voice carrying. "What we need is not a jester's riddles. What we need is a king who speaks." His gaze shifted to Bran, cold with challenge.
The hall stilled. Even the gulls beyond the windows seemed to pause. Bran's head turned slowly, his pale eyes fixing on Royce. The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Then Bran spoke, soft but clear. "The shadows lengthen. You argue over ships and fields, yet you do not see what walks in the ruins across the sea. Fire stirs where it should not. Wings beat where they should not. What comes will not care for your ports or your harvests."
A murmur rippled through the lords. Some crossed themselves. Others scoffed.
"Madness," said Lady Tyrell's cousin. "Old tales to frighten children."
"Old tales have teeth," Bran said. His voice did not rise, but it cut through the hall like winter wind. "I have seen them."
Tyrion stepped forward, seizing the moment. "His Grace speaks truth. Strange reports reach us daily: ships burned to the waterline near Valyria, fishermen raving of monsters in the waves, sailors swearing they saw shadows with wings blotting out the sun. If half of it is true, then we face a threat unlike any since the Long Night. If all of it is true, the realm trembles on the edge of doom."
The lords shifted uneasily. No man wished to be the first to call a Hand a liar, nor the first to grant him credence.
Lord Royce's jaw worked. "And what would you have us do? Sail to the Smoking Sea? Throw gold at ghosts?"
"No," Tyrion said. His words came quick, sharp. "I would have us prepare. Ships, yes, but not for plunder. Men, yes, but not to raid neighbors. The Watch is thin. The North alone cannot guard us if shadows come crawling. We must stand together, or we will fall apart, one by one."
A bitter laugh rose from Redwyne. "And who will pay for this noble unity, my lord Hand? You?"
Tyrion smiled thinly. "I have always paid, one way or another."
The chamber erupted again, voices clashing, oaths muttered, accusations thrown like daggers. Through it all Bran sat unmoved, his gaze distant, his hands still upon the arms of his chair.
Davos leaned close to Tyrion. "They'll tear each other apart before the first shadow ever crosses the sea."
"Then we'd best hope the shadows are patient," Tyrion muttered. Yet even as he spoke, he saw a servant slipping from the hall, quick as a rat in the walls, carrying a message sealed not with the lion of Lannister nor the direwolf of Stark, but with the twin towers of Frey.
Betrayal had long roots, and some roots rot deeper than fire.
The godswood of King's Landing was smaller than those of the North, a pale echo of true forests. Its single weirwood stood twisted and gnarled, its red leaves whispering faintly in the still night air. Moonlight spilled silver across its face, and in the carved eyes of the tree the sap bled like half-dried tears.
Bran sat beneath it, his wheeled chair locked against the roots, his pale hands folded in his lap. No guards lingered nearby; even the fiercest of them found excuse to keep their distance when the king prayed. For hours he had not moved, not blinked, his eyes clouded with the white fog of vision.
Within, he flew.
Through shadow and time, through snow and smoke, through the endless beating of wings. The world below bent and twisted, castles crumbling like sand, seas boiling with steam. The Smoking Sea stretched wide, and from its heart rose the black ruin of Valyria, jagged and cruel.
He heard it first: a rumble deep as the world's bones, the growl of mountains stirring. Then fire bloomed—vast, roaring, alive. Shadows wheeled above it, vast wings tearing the sky, scales glinting molten red. Not one, not two, but a host of shapes, some vast as castles, others swift as hawks. Dragons.
But they were wrong.
Their eyes burned green, their maws spilling black fire that clung to stone like tar. Where it fell, no grass ever grew. The sky above them was filled with smoke and ash, and beneath their wings, he glimpsed figures moving—men, or things that had once been men, their skin pale as milk, their mouths filled with fire. Sorcerers, bound to the beasts, or something fouler still.
A voice whispered through it all, cold as ice though it came from fire.
"The Doom was never ended. It sleeps. It waits. It rises."
Bran's vision shifted. He saw Jon Snow—older, sterner, his face lined with the weight of command—standing upon the Wall once more. Ghost was at his side, red eyes blazing in the dark. Behind Jon stretched ranks of the Watch, pitifully few, their cloaks ragged, their eyes hollow. Before him, on the horizon, the sky churned with wings.
He saw the Iron Throne—empty, the hall around it filled with ash. Tyrion lay broken at its foot, the crown rolling from his hand into blood. Davos stood in fire, his sword in one hand, his other arm charred to bone.
He saw Arya at sea, her ship tossed upon black waters, sails aflame. A shadow passed over her deck, wings blotting out the stars.
He saw the Vale, the Reach, Dorne—fields burning, rivers boiling, cities choking on smoke. Lords who quarreled in daylight screaming together in the dark.
And he saw himself—alone in the heart of the storm, roots of the weirwood digging into his flesh, the birds of the forest all dead around him. His voice carried not through the Red Keep but across the land, whispering into dreams, warning, begging. Yet few listened. Fewer believed.
The last image seared him.
A great dragon, black as pitch, its wings vast enough to cover the sky. Its maw opened, and from within spilled not flame but silence. The silence of the grave, swallowing all sound, all life. Its eyes met his, and in them Bran saw nothing—no hunger, no rage, no soul.
Only void.
The vision broke.
He gasped, the air of the godswood rushing back, thick with the smell of leaves and earth. His body trembled, though his face remained still as stone. A raven croaked from the wall above, black wings cutting the moonlight, before it vanished into the night.
Bran blinked once. Slowly, he raised his hand to the bark of the weirwood, the red sap sticky beneath his palm.
"Shadows rise," he whispered to no one. "Fire walks again."
And in the stillness of the godswood, the carved face of the tree seemed to weep.
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